


fortune favours the brave

by alsjeblieft



Series: movie prompts [1]
Category: Pacific Rim (Movies), WTFock | Skam (Belgium)
Genre: Big Soulmate Energy, Drift Compatibility, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, M/M, Pining, Slow Burn, all of this is set in Hong Kong bc Belgium doesn't have a Shatterdome, also besties Sander Moyo and Amber, basically the whole cast is in this one way or another, honestly it is less about the jaegers and more about the aesthetic™ so please indulge me, jaeger pilot!robbe, only a little bit tho bc you know these two can't stay enemies for long, pacificrim!au, technician!sander
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-21
Updated: 2020-10-14
Packaged: 2021-03-04 04:14:54
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 22,229
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24843640
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alsjeblieft/pseuds/alsjeblieft
Summary: Sander takes in all the mech outlines displayed on the screens and can’t help himself from wanting . Any one of those pilots could have been him. Should have been him. But he fucked it up.So he got shipped off.Or the pacific rim!au where Sander is a disgraced Ranger-turned-technician and Robbe is the youngest to ever pilot a jaeger.
Relationships: Robbe IJzermans/Jens Stoffels, Sander Driesen/Robbe IJzermans
Series: movie prompts [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1797364
Comments: 41
Kudos: 115





	1. PROLOGUE

**Author's Note:**

> this has been in my head for months!! it is such a relief to get even just the prologue out so I hope you enjoy xx

Sander can’t believe he’s doing this. Again. 

“Ziggy,” he says slowly. “What have you got in your mouth?” 

The dog stares up at him, eyes wide, something dark and greasy between her teeth and Sander sighs. He pulls back from the engine where he had been working on loosening a power converter and points a finger at the ground. “Spit it out.” 

Ziggy’s tail starts wagging.

“We don’t have time. Come on, drop it.” 

This isn’t the first time this has happened. Sander had found her, a chocolate brown labrador, abandoned as a puppy on the side of the road, no collar, no markings. She was shaking when he had tucked her inside his leather jacket. Now a few months later, she still teeths on anything she can find. 

Sander groans, grabbing her jaw with both hands. “Listen, do you want to go to jail? Because I’m not bailing you out. Drop. It.” 

Ziggy simpers, lowering her head and releasing the bundle of wires at Sander’s feet. He presses a kiss between her ears. 

“Good girl.” He puts the flashlight back into his mouth and picks his pliers up. The metal plating around the engine has rusted from being exposed to the humid Hong Kong air, and it catches on the fabric of Sander’s fingerless gloves. 

Sander had hit the jackpot. Before they are decommissioned, jaegers are stripped for essential parts. In this one, all the main power cores have been removed but luckily, none of the capacitors have been touched. Usually, anything of value is repurposed or melted down to build new fleets of robots and anything that gets left behind is stolen by scavengers. 

Which is exactly what Sander is doing now. 

Scavenging hadn’t exactly been his first idea, but it had been the only way he could survive after escaping Tokyo. No one would hire him if they found out there was a missing person’s ad with his name on it. So, he went out on his own, stealing parts from decommissioned scrap yards and selling them for a living. And he got real good at it, too. Having studied mechanics at the Tokyo Shatterdome, he learned exactly which parts of a jaeger were the most valuable, and the quickest to extract. Scavenging is all about speed and sleight of hand. You get what you need and you get the hell out of there.

Which is why Sander’s senses are now on high alert, listening out in case any of Hannibal Chau’s scavenger crew show up or—worst-case scenario—a PPDC guard passes by. This is where Ziggy is supposed to come in handy, but she just rests her head calmly on Sander’s thigh as he forces his hands to work faster on the colour-coded wires. He severs them one by one as swiftly as possible. 

One last snip and the converter is free. 

Sander rolls his shoulders in relief, tucking the pliers into his cargo trousers, and quickly wraps the metal chunk in a piece of cloth. 

With the package safely stored in his messenger bag, he takes the flashlight into his hand and whistles for Ziggy to follow him. 

The insides of a jaeger are maze-like, but Sander has seen and designed enough blueprints to easily navigate through the corridors. 

Right before turning a corner, he hears a clatter around the bend. He freezes on instinct and catches Ziggy’s collar with two fingers, pulling her back to his side and putting a hand over her muzzle. _Shit_.

In Hong Kong, Hannibal Chau’s scavengers remain at the top of the chain. Sander has never come face-to-face with one of them, but he’s met people who have. People who came out of it with gunshot wounds or missing limbs. Chau’s crew is one of the reasons Sander now carries a knife strapped to his belt. 

He pulls his face mask up over his mouth and sneaks a look around the corner. 

And then frowns in confusion. 

It is definitely a person, a small hooded figure fiddling with the circuits of a thruster pod, but something feels off. He goes for another peak, but missteps and kicks a broken spotlight in his path. It clangs loudly and the mysterious figure stiffens. Sander instinctively knows they are going to make a run for it, but it still doesn’t feel right.

_I must be out of my mind_ , he thinks before he lunges out and intercepts them mid-escape, catching their hood. They protest and struggle; Sander gets a bony elbow to the stomach, so he tugs the hood off with a grunt.

He was right. He huffs. “You’re just a kid.” 

The girl is young, no older than 10, brown hair in a messy braid, grease smudged on her cheek and skin damp from the humidity. She pulls roughly out of his grasp and Sander shrugs his hands up. “Okay, little criminal, not gonna hurt you. But there’s some highly radioactive material in here. I’d be careful.” 

The kid doesn’t respond. Sander had started out in English, but maybe she doesn’t speak it. His Chinese is rough and limited; it’s been years since he last spoke it, but he gives it a go. He gestures around them. “This. Dangerous.” He mimics an explosion with his fingers. She rolls her eyes at him so at least she can understand him. 

A searchlight beam from outside lights up her face and he catches a glimpse of freckles, a pointed chin, deep set almond eyes. Sander twists his mouth. “You don’t really look like you’re from--” Whatever Sander had tried to say fades off as the girl abruptly makes a run for it. Ziggy barks after her and Sander rolls his eyes. He almost runs to catch up, but then decides it’s not worth it. He has the power converter, and not a lot of time before someone finds him out. He pulls his hood up over his head to cover his bright white hair and swings himself out of the jaeger’s rig and into the night, Ziggy leaping out right behind him. 

Straight out into the pouring rain.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Sander mutters under his breath. Of all the things he needed right now, heavy downpour was not it. It made it more difficult to see and more difficult to hear someone approaching. It also made Ziggy’s fur stink something ferocious, and Sander was _not_ in the mood for that. 

His flashlight had gone missing sometime during the scuffle with the girl so Sander struggles with where to set his foot in the dark. There is absolutely nothing organised about scrap yards, even ones run by the Pan Pacific Defense Corps. Sander curses the PPDC in his head as he nearly trips over a bundle of stripped wires. 

Overhead searchlights roam, and Sander makes sure to avoid their harsh beams but uses them to navigate through the night. He had left his motorcycle close to the entrance, hidden under a tarp, so he rushes to it, keeping low to the ground with Ziggy on his heels. 

Suddenly, voices are heard, a group of them not too far away. Sander stops dead in his tracks. They are too loud and too many to be guards. They have to be Hannibal Chau's crew.

Ripping the tarp off the bike and rapidly firing off curse words, he swings a leg over and powers it up. Used to this by now, the dog jumps up into her seat, safe between his arms. And he’s just about to speed off when he hears a scream. The girl. 

Sander is only a couple of metres away from the entrance, from his way out. The bike is already fired up and he’ll be out in seconds. But the girl was so young. He can’t just leave her. He looks down at Ziggy. 

“I’m so going to regret this, aren’t I?” 

She tilts her head at him, and Sander chews his lip, hanging his head forward with a deep sigh. “Dammit, Driesen.” He revs the engine and swivels the bike around. 

Rounding the big metal hand of what Sander is pretty sure used to be Guardian Bravo, he spots the girl with her hands out, facing one of Chau’s men. The guy is burly, dressed in dark clothing, face hooded. 

And he’s aiming a gun right at her. 

_Idiot_. Gunfire is the easiest way to attract guards, even with silencers. 

But Sander must be the bigger idiot because he calls out a “hey!” before swerving to a halt next to them. The back wheel kicks up wet dirt into the man’s face and he recoils, but Sander aims a heavy boot at the center of his chest for good measure to knock the breath out of him and throw him off balance. 

“Quick!” He tells the girl who doesn’t hesitate to jump on. Sander supposes that he came off as slightly less harmful than the guy who pointed a rifle at her head. 

With her seated behind him, he books it around the back but the scavenger seems to have recovered because shouts rise behind them. Gunshots ping off of the rusted metal around them and the girl shrieks. Sander turns a sharp right to avoid the line of fire.

There are sirens in the distance now, and Sander groans in frustration. “See, this is why I don’t use guns! They’re too goddamn loud.” Now wet with rain, his fingers slip on the bike's front console, but he manages to flip the center switch, shifting to camouflage mode. He accelerates, not waiting for the bike to cloak itself before speeding off. But the girl must see their reflection—or lack of it—on some metal panelling because she gasps in awe. Sander is too pressed to feel proud of his tech right now, with lights that aren’t from the scavengers right on their tail. 

“Shit, shit, it’s the PPDC.” Sander really cannot afford to be caught by them. He hasn’t been back to the Hong Kong Shatterdome in years, he’s definitely not keen on going back now. The girl obviously doesn’t want to either, because she pokes him several times in the side. 

And with panic in her voice, “No, no, they can’t know I’m here.” 

“You and me both, kiddo,” Sander speedily replies. It takes a minute for his brain to catch up, for him to realise that not only did she _speak_ , she definitely wasn’t speaking English or Chinese. “You...you speak _Dutch_?” His voice is incredulous. He hasn’t met someone who spoke his own language in almost a year. 

“Watch out!” 

Sander had lost his focus and now narrowly misses the headlights of a PPDC car. He swerves sharply. The fence is coming up on their left and Sander spots the rip in the metal links he himself had cut open, one the other group of scavengers had probably taken advantage of. He speeds towards it, ducking and forcing Ziggy’s head down with his chin. 

They make it out, and suddenly there is a lightness in Sander's chest, like he'd been holding his breath for hours. He hasn’t ever gotten that close to the PPDC and his heart beats wildly in his chest. The cool night air whips around his face; it makes Ziggy's ears flap in the wind. High on adrenaline, he lets out a laugh. The girl snorts behind his back. Ziggy bumps her head into his jaw.

“So, kiddo, do you have a name?” he says in Dutch, pleased to be speaking in his own language again.

She seems reluctant at first. “Lotte.” 

“Sander,” he responds. “I’d say it’s nice to meet you, but considering I almost died back there, I should probably word that differently.” 

It’s a bit too early to feel giddy, however, because something underneath the console starts sputtering and dread runs down Sander's spine. The camouflage starts flickering off and on and Sander raps against the glass with a knuckle. The needle on the fuel gauge is quickly tipping towards empty and they are losing speed. Panicked, Sander turns his head and sees fuel leaking out the back. One of the bullets must have hit the gas tank.

_No, not now, not now. Just a little bit longer._

“What’s happening?” Lotte shouts as the wind whips harder around them despite the fact that they are slowing to a stop. Sander knows that sound. The deafening turns of helicopter blades slicing through air descends upon them. There’s no way they can escape now. 

He can’t stop himself. “Fuck.” 

“Language,” Lotte admonishes him, almost as an absent side-thought as she watches the helicopter land in front of them, the Pan Pacific Defense Corps logo clearly visible on its side. 

Sander is so very, very screwed. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> volume 1 coming soon!


	2. VOL I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this fic is my baby you guys...and it's probably going to be way longer that I thought it would, so my bad

“This is a bit unnecessary, don’t you think?”

The officer glares at him, unimpressed. “You’ve been taken into custody for theft of classified materials and trespassing on private property.”

After being loaded onto the PPDC helicopter, Sander and his new partner in crime, Lotte, had been taken straight to Hong Kong’s Shatterdome. Sander had bounced his knee the whole way over, Ziggy pressed against his other leg, praying no officials had been told of this. He would never hear the end of it otherwise. 

“So, I stole a generator,” he says now. “That’s a minor offense. A teeny tiny one. I really don’t think I need to be behind bars for that,” Sander lays emphasis on the last words, rattling the bars of the holding cell loudly. Truth is, it’s not actually a minor offense and he knows that. 

The officer approaches them. He taps the metal with his staff. “That’s not what these are for. We were told you are a...flight risk.” 

Sander scowls. Glancing back, he throws an arm in Lotte’s direction who sticks her tongue out at him and continues petting Ziggy. “And what about her? She’s just a kid. This is child abuse, really. Do your superiors know what you’re up to down here?” 

The officer levels a look at him. “Her family will be contacted.” 

That gets a reaction out of her. She springs up and rattles the bars herself. “No, you can’t tell my brother about this, please.” 

He sounds a lot more gentle when he speaks to her, which Sander can’t help but find offensive. “He’s gonna find out eventually, miss.” 

“He’s gonna be pissed.” 

“Language.” Sander smirks at her. 

Before she can sock him in the arm, the officer speaks up. “Don’t look so pleased, Mr. Driesen. The Marshal has been notified.”

That makes Sander’s heart stop in his chest. He puts his face right up against the bars. “No, no, she cannot know I’m here. I’m dead serious, hey, listen--”

A patch of golden badges and stars appear before him before he can finish his sentence. He doesn't even have to look at the nametag to know it reads Marshal Driesen. Sander lets his eyes fall shut in resignation. He backs away from the bars to meet stern green eyes. Pinching his lips together, he nods in greeting.

“Hello, mother.” 

“My office. At once.” She marches off, and Sander sighs, already feeling a headache coming on. 

Lotte’s disbelieving voice comes from waist-level. “Your mother is _the Marshal_?” 

“Yup,” Sander deflates, resting his temple against a cool metal bar. “Not exactly how I imagined our reunion going.” 

“You mean sitting behind bars in a PPDC prison cell?” 

Sander glares at her. “Yeah, something like that. Oh shut it, little criminal, how old are you anyway?” 

“Nine,” she says defensively as the officer comes over with the keys to let Sander out. 

“You still got a lot to learn then.” 

“Like what?” 

When handcuffs snap around Sander’s wrists, he mutters “seriously” under his breath before meeting Lotte’s eyes. “Like don’t steal from your parents. They’re not overly fond of that.” 

Walking behind his mother on the way to her office, in handcuffs, might not have been Sander’s best moment but it is certainly not the worst. Marshal Driesen’s shoulders are firmly set, the folds of her blue suit pressed and her dark hair tied neatly up under her peaked cap. Sander notes that he hasn’t been within five meters distance of her in almost five years, bar the few hologram messages and brief video chats in Tokyo. He sets his jaw firmly and looks away. 

He takes in his surroundings instead. To get from the holdings compound to the offices, they need to pass through the main hallways. 

The Hong Kong Shatterdome is different from what Sander remembers. Complements of Shao Industries, all facilities have been fitted with new tech; holographic interfaces, hand scanners, netscreens and portable tablets. It makes the place feel lighter, cleaner, and if it weren’t for the old concrete walls, bulky metal beams and worn signs, it almost would have reminded Sander of Tokyo. He's happy it doesn't.

It is early morning now, Sander sees the time on one of the wall-screens. He notices a group of technicians heading towards the launch bay in their olive green jumpsuits, probably switching to the morning shift. Both the launch bay and mission control remain active 24/7 in case of a kaiju attack. The PPDC must always be prepared. 

Behind the technicians walk another smaller group of three. 

Two girls, one with black hair in a short bob and deep red lipstick and the other with her long brown hair swept into a loose ponytail, both in cadet uniforms. And between them, squeezed underneath their draped arms, walks a boy. 

Sander can’t look away. 

Messy brown hair, dressed in a loose-fit grey sweater, cheekbones sharp enough to catch the light just right in a way that Sander’s fingers itch to put on paper. But it’s his eyes that startle him the most. They are so dark, and surrounded by deep circles of extreme tiredness. Sander figures that something must have happened by the way the girls are comforting him quietly and his left arm is wrapped up a sling. And when the boy lifts those eyes to Sander’s, he blinks slowly a few times like it takes a while for Sander to register in his head. 

Then, his gaze seems to clear and turn curious as he scans over Sander; his white hair, his black clothes and...fuck, the handcuffs. Sander had forgotten where he was for a second and winces. He shifts his wrists uncomfortably against the rigid metal edges.

The boy looks away. 

In the Marshal’s office, she sighs at her son's cuffed hands and unlocks them. She is quiet as she stands in front of him, scanning his face with two fingers to his chin. 

“It’s good to see you again.” 

Sander narrows his eyes. “Is it?” He can’t exactly say she looks the picture of happiness right now. Again, she sighs at him. 

“I wish it were under better circumstances yes, but you’re still my son.” 

_My runaway son_ , she means. Sander bites the inside of his cheek as Marshal Driesen sits down behind her desk. There are mostly medals and diplomas covering the walls, but Sander spots a couple pictures of him; three years old and smiling at the camera with a few gaps in his teeth, seven years old and sitting on his father’s shoulders, eleven and perched on his mother’s lap behind the steering wheel of a car, fourteen and holding his Academy acceptance letter. 

His hair was still brown in those pictures. Before he got shipped off to Tokyo and his roommates introduced him to the magic of bleach and hair dye. 

The Marshal folds her hands atop the desk. “There is an opening on our J-Tech team for a new engineer.” Sander turns to her in confusion. She explains, “You were one of the best technicians in your class. I’d like for you to apply.” 

“I never graduated, though.” Sander slouches into the chair opposite her, meeting her stare head-on, and he just knows she wants to retort with a “because you dropped out two months before graduation” but she inhales deeply instead. 

“ _Still_ , you were a student at the Tokyo Shatterdome. That makes you more qualified than half of our current staff.” 

Sander scoffs. 

“This is not a request, Sander. While you were...gone, you stole and sold enough parts to build a whole jaeger. I’m letting you off easy.” 

Easy? She thinks this is easy? He sniffs. “I’m still not allowed to pilot, am I?” 

A pause. “You are allowed.” 

“You just don’t want me to.” 

Another sigh. Sander clenches his fists. 

“We’re launching a new fleet of Jaegers soon. Help finish them and then we’ll talk about you re-enlisting.” 

Before Sander leaves the room, rubbing his wrists, she calls his name. Coming around the desk, she hands him something; a USB drive. 

“Here,” she says. “One of our jaegers got deployed yesterday. Came back severely damaged. I’m putting you in charge of repairs, so have a look and see if anything is salvageable.” 

Sander barely gives it a glance and tucks it into his pocket. He makes for the door, but the Marshal stops him with a hand at his elbow. Her grip is unrelenting, but gradually softens. 

“Sander…” She reaches up to hold a strand of his bleached hair and touches his cheek on the way back down. "It’s good to have you back.” 

His eyes sting and he nods slowly.

He leaves without responding.

Back at the cell, the officer dumps Sander's large green duffel on the counter and tosses him his messenger bag. “Your belongings.” 

Sander side-eyes him and quickly searches through it. Of course they took the generator. He doesn’t really have any use for it now anyways; he’s going to be stuck here for a while.

Digging around, his gloves catch on something, a keychain; a red lightning bolt attached to an ignition key. At this, he looks up at the officer. “And my bike?” 

“Still in processing.”

Sander is about to protest but the man interrupts him, pointing his staff at the entrance without looking. “Take her with you, too.” 

On a chair in the hallway, sits Lotte with her chin in her hands. Ziggy is perched at the girl’s feet and her tail wags wildly at the sight of Sander. 

“You’re still here?” He asks the girl, who shrugs, smile on her face.

“My brother’s stuck somewhere; they can’t reach him. He’s probably in Mission Control.” She looks all too pleased about that fact.

"Your brother works here?"

Lotte raises her chin, proud. "He's a pilot in the Jaeger program." 

Sander ignores the slight stab in his chest.

“And I take it he'd be pretty upset to find out you spent the night in a scrap yard?” he remarks with a smirk as he shoulders his bag, adjusts his jacket. “ I snuck out all the time at your age. It’s what kids do.” 

She shakes her head vehemently. “He’ll flip. He doesn’t like me being around jaegers at all, much less me becoming a Ranger. He won’t tell me _anything_ , not about the mechs, the kaijus, the Drift." Her tone is petulant, and she kicks at the ground stubbornly.

Sander nods, suddenly understanding why he found her wandering around a decommissioned jaeger scrapyard in the middle of the night. "So you went to find out on your own." 

"It’s the only way I can get any information.” 

Sander looks at the girl with her hands tucked under her thighs, a tiny frown between her eyebrows, knees knocking together.

“Wanna get some food?” he relents.

She blinks at him as he bends down and leashes Ziggy. “You’re staying?”

“Not by choice, kiddo. I’m stuck helping out the tech team for now.” He ruffles her hair and quickly ducks down the hallway before she can swing at his arm. 

///

“ _The_ Tokyo Shatterdome?” 

Sander refrains from rolling his eyes and keeps on walking, footsteps determined as they head towards the cafeteria.

“Yes, kid, keep up. I’m starving.” Sander hasn’t eaten in far too long; his last decent meal had been instant noodles several hours before the scrap yard, and the PPDC aren’t exactly known for their astounding hospitality either. Sander’s headache is quickly building and Lotte’s onslaught of questions really isn’t helping. 

“Are you serious? What were you doing there? Did you see Archer Menace? She is _the_ coolest. Three-man rig, all female pilots, third highest kill streak in the world. What about Jinx Hydra?” Lotte practically bounces next to Sander as she walks. She carries her dark cape balled up under one arm, holding Ziggy’s leash with the other. As her voice rises in excitement, the harder Ziggy’s tail wags, her whole body twitching enthusiastically. 

Sander needs food. Right now. “You have way too many questions.” He can hear the noise and bustle of the cafeteria. They are so close. 

“I can’t believe this. If you studied in Tokyo, what were you doing in a scrap yard? In Hong Kong?” 

Sander stops to give Lotte a stiff smile and bop her nose. “None of your business, shortie.” She makes an offended noise. Turning to head towards the cafeteria doors, Sander freezes when he sees the floor-to-ceiling netscreens lining the side of the hallway. For a second, he forgets all about his hunger.

Jaeger profiles. 

The fleet has expanded since he was here last. Hong Kong operates 17 mechs in total, compared to Tokyo’s 23. Sander notes that out of the 17, Belgium's team on its own has three active jaegers. 

If possible, Lotte seems even more excited now than before. She sees Sander’s eyes scanning the lists and flicks through the three profiles with waves of her hand. “Echo Nova, Titan Prophet and then my brother’s jaeger…”—another wave of her hand—”Fox Enigma.” 

Sander reads the names off the bottom. Jens Stoffels and Robbe Ijzermans. He lifts his chin in recognition; he knew those names. Rumours about Fox Enigma’s team had spread even to the Tokyo Shatterdome. Youngest team to ever pilot a jaeger, graduated top of their class. 83 simulation drops, 83 kills. Sander reads the stats despite Lotte relaying all of it out loud right next to him. He tunes her out. Seven kaiju kills, all ranking in Category IVs and Vs, and the mech was launched only last year. 

“It’s the smallest jaeger on the fleet.” Lotte sounds giddy. “But they have the highest kill rate.” 

Sander takes in all the mech outlines displayed on the screens and can’t help himself from _wanting_. Any one of those pilots could have been him. Should have been him. But he fucked it up. 

So he got shipped off.

Ziggy bumps her head into his hand. Sander startles. Unthinkingly, he had reached for her, thumbing a velvety chocolate ear while drifting off in his thoughts. He refocuses on Lotte. 

“—Prophet is my favourite. She’s the one with a vortex cannon. Swear I’m gonna pilot her one day.” 

Sander clears his throat, hitching an eyebrow. “Yeah? What’s the first kill going to be then? Cat-III, or maybe a Cat-IV?” 

Lotte looks up at him, insulted. “A Cat-V for sure.” 

Sander grins. “That’s the spirit.”

He’s about to turn toward the cafeteria doors when someone running past them abruptly stops, backtracks and catches Lotte by the arms.

“Hey! I’ve been looking all over for you. Where have you been?” Sander recognizes him from the technician team he saw this morning, hair in a buzz cut, dark skin, mole on his lip, headphones around his neck. The cloth name tag on his jumpsuit reads M. Makadi. 

“Just showing him around,” she jerks a thumb at Sander. “He’s...new.” 

The other boy hesitates, giving Sander a wary once-over before nodding at him, putting a hand on his own chest. “Nice to meet you, man, I’m Moyo. But Lotte, we have to go. There was an attack during the night. Enigma got deployed, and...”

There is a darkness in his voice, tone tapering off towards the end, and Sander feels a jolt of unease, but Lotte doesn’t seem to have made the connection just yet, brows furrowed in confusion. 

“Enigma was heavily damaged, Lotte. Robbe and Jens both ended up in med bay.” 

Lotte blinks, eyes going blank, realisation dawning, small hands fisting at her sides. “Are they…?” 

Moyo lets out a breath. “No, but you might want to head to—” He doesn’t get to finish his sentence before Lotte drops Ziggy’s leash and sets off into a sprint in the direction Moyo came from, moving fast. The technician curses, blurting out a “sorry, man” to Sander and rushing after her. 

Ziggy whimpers, tilting her head sideways. Left behind, Sander takes hold of her leash in a daze, as the reality of what just happened settles in. On a disoriented impulse, he reaches into his jacket and pulls out the USB his mother gave him of the jaeger he was being assigned to. The jaeger that was severely damaged in battle. On the USB’s side, there is a label. Sander’s stomach sinks. 

It reads _Fox Enigma_.

///

Sander can’t sleep. 

Everytime he closes his eyes, he sees flashes. Flashes of the explosive firing of guns, colour-coded wires, the cold walls of the holding cell, shadowed cheekbones, his mother’s face, jaegers on holographic profiles, and Lotte’s eyes filled with concern as she runs off to med bay. 

He tries drawing for a bit, tries until the pencil smudges charcoal over his hands, all while the silver glint of the USB sits firmly in the corner of his eye. 

He chews the inside of his cheek before giving in and pushing his journal to the side. Ziggy doesn’t even stir when Sander nudges her heavy head off him and climbs out of bed. He had planned on watching the footage tomorrow, but the day has left him feeling too antsy to fall asleep now. Despite not feeling tired, a yawn still overtakes him as he moves over to the desk. 

Sander had been given a dorm room on the far side of the Shatterdome. It was simple, but definitely upgraded since he was here last; a single bed, a touch-screen desk, built-in closet and a small kitchenette with a mini-fridge that makes weird noises. There was also a kettle stuffed away in one of the cabinets but it looked more like a fire hazard than anything so he had pushed it back into a far corner. 

At least the desk chair is relatively comfortable, which he slumps down into now. The USB drive looks so small in his palm and he rolls it between a thumb and forefinger before slipping it into the port at the side of the desk. He watches it download, reaching a hand under the loose sleeve of his t-shirt to scratch an itch while he waits. It must be a big file because it takes longer than usual. 

But suddenly, the top of the table lights up in holographic imagery, responsive to Sander’s touch. With a lazy flick of his wrist, he opens up the file. 

When the footage starts playing, he hastily has to lower the volume; the Mission Control room on screen is utter chaos. People are shouting, netscreens and displays are all blinking red, alarms blare from various ends of the panels. 

**Red alert. I repeat, red alert.**

Amid the frenzy, Sander spots his mother standing with the LOCCENT Mission Controller, speaking in raised voices. Orders are thrown across the room, and Sander has to press pause shortly just to read the stream of live feed on the Mission Controller’s board. 

At 0400 hours, movement had been detected near the Breach. A Category III kaiju, named Yaoguai. Fox Enigma was quickly dispatched and within 15 minutes, the target had been neutralised. An easy mission for a jaeger of such reputed standard.

But the first kaiju hadn’t been the problem; it was the one that followed. A Cat-IV, a massive 9000 metric ton monster with talons as long as cruise ships, grey leathery skin, a slit mouth of jagged teeth, and a maw full of neon blue venom. It was named Kuchisake. 

Double kaiju events are rarely heard of, and when they do happen, it is rare all pilots come back alive. Which is why Sander understands the utter franticness of the operators as they fumble around on their panels. 

“Critical damage, Marshal!” the Mission Controller is crying. Sander zooms in on one of the displays showing Enigma’s blueprints, and he frowns, briefly wondering where all her weapons are. Then, his mouth drops open. 

Because he realises that _he’s looking at them._

A single built-in sword, a few chest cannons, and a couple of wrist flares. Against a kaiju of this size, that should equal death. He wonders how the pilots can even still be alive. He also wonders how the fuck his mother could approve of sending them out in a jaeger that is barely equipped. 

Shifting focus to the live footage of the fight, Sander props a fist against his mouth, incredulous. Chunks of Enigma’s torso are missing, and the front shield of the helmet is shattered. Sparks fly from disconnected wires in the left thigh and at the side of the neck. 

And yet the voices of the pilots can be heard inside shouting commands between them, voices steady, like this is easy, like they haven’t just gotten ripped into by a giant monster. 

Sander has never seen them, can’t see them now either, but he knows who they are. 

Robbe Ijzermans and Jens Stoffels.

So even though it feels like there is a stone where his stomach should be because he knows that one of these pilots is Lotte’s brother, Sander can’t help but stare in wonder. Enigma moves like nothing he has ever seen before. She is swift and agile in the water, and where most jaegers are too heavy, this one swing-kicks like she’s light as a feather.

Sparing a quick glance over his shoulder at Ziggy—fast asleep with her paws stretched towards the ceiling—he raises the volume on the pilots’ audio. 

“Boosters on 3! Go!” One of them shouts, signature reading Ijzermans. 

The robot is propelled into a backflip, narrowly avoiding the snap of Kuchisake’s wide jaw, and landing a small distance away. She barely gains her footing before she is launched right into a sprint. 

And just seconds before claws hit, Enigma ducks, twists, and backswipes the left arm’s blade against the kaiju’s side. 

It is a move Sander’s teacher made him analyse over and over again in Tokyo. Enigma’s signature move. 

The hit is good and the kaiju falls, collapsing beneath grey roaring waves. 

Then everything goes quiet for a couple of seconds; Sander finds himself holding his breath. As do everyone else in Mission Control, evidently. 

“Does it have a pulse?” Audio signature: Stoffels asks, panting. 

“Yes, but it’s weak, I don’t-” 

The spiked tail of the kaiju emerges from the water and embeds itself in the mech’s left shoulder. The left-hand side pilot cries out in startled pain. 

“Robbe!” 

“Shit!” Sander finds himself cursing along with them. He sometimes forgets that in the Drift, your mind is not only connected with your co-pilot, it’s connected to the machine as well. So while you might not take any physical damage, the feeling is still there. 

“Ijzermans,” the Mission Controller warns. “you’re out of alignment!”

The pilot is clearly dazed, but the connection is still strong enough to force the right arm to rise, and the wrist cannons to activate. They get in a couple of good shots, but Kuchisake uses the shock to rear up and sink its teeth into the right arm, plunging deep, likely cutting through the main wires. Red starts to flare up on the right-hand side pilot’s vitals, heart rate going up, connection wavering as Stoffels groans in pain and effort. 

“Right arm gone cold,” a voice in the room calls. 

“Neural bridge is unstable.” 

“Echo Nova on standby.”

“Rangers, you are both out of alignment. Ijzermans, focus!” 

The last one comes from the Marshal, who had grabbed hold of the mike, body language determined. It spurs the left pilot to lift one arm and drive the sword into the kaiju’s neck, slicing all the way through. It does the trick; the monster writhes until it stiffens and falls, pulse gone dead. But as it goes down, the firm jaws pull at Fox Enigma’s right arm, completely ripping it from the socket. 

Sander watches Stoffels’s vitals drop instantly, stats blinking a harsh red on the screen. 

“He’s unconscious,” Marshal Driesen says, voice tight. “I want them brought in right now!” 

Fingers fly over panels, ordering drones to pick up the pieces, but Sander is still processing what just happened. He had heard rumours about Fox Enigma and her pilots, but he has never seen one jaeger take down two kaiju with next to no weapons. 

The world’s fastest jaeger used to be Striker Eureka. 

Now, it’s Fox Enigma. 

///

Sander hadn’t even been on base for 24 hours before he was put straight to work. 

The J-Tech team seem dead-set on getting him up to speed as soon as possible, meaning he barely has time to return to his quarters to sleep. Most of the time, he naps in empty coves and uses Ziggy as his pillow.

On his first day as a Hong Kong Shatterdome tehnician, he is led to a part of the tech bay sectioned off for Enigma’s repair, his guide an all-too-bubbly blonde girl named Amber who is enamoured with Ziggy, and sometimes speaks too fast for his sleep-deprived brain to process. She’s probably very nice but Sander would prefer to be left to his own devices. 

While pressing her thumb into the fingerprint scanner on the door, she rattles off information Sander already knows, partly from rumours at the Tokyo Shatterdome but also from the briefing that came along with the footage he watched last night. She speaks with pride, “Fox Enigma is a Mark-8 Jaeger. She's our fastest mech, not just on the Belgian fleet, but in the whole Pacific. Her limbs each have 60 propulsion jets per muscle strand, her structure is pure iron…” 

After a while, Sander tunes her out but when the doors open up to the enormous hangar that is Bay 6, all other sounds go silent too. Walking forward, he rests his hands on the yellow railing and stares up. 

Towering over them, stands Fox Enigma. While she may be the smallest on the fleet, there is no doubt of her domineering presence. Her structure is completely trashed, with the whole right arm missing, deep gashes in her torso, and a gaping hole in her shoulder but Sander still thinks she’s beautiful. She’s the colour of burnished bronze, almost like dark honey where the light hits just right. Her exterior is sleek and tapered like her name suggests, and her core still burns as bright as ever despite her damage. 

Sander had forgotten just how intimidating these robots actually are. He shifts his shoulders as a shudder runs through him. Amber glances at him, amused. “Impressive, huh? Probably nothing compared to what you saw in Tokyo though, I bet.” 

Sander is about to disagree before Amber approaches another technician waving in platform trucks with red batons. “Moyo, really? That should have been done ages ago.” 

Sander bristles at the familiar name and when the guy turns around to snark at Amber, he recognises him as the one who came looking for Lotte yesterday. Moyo spots Sander and raises a finger in question. 

Amber notices and waves him over. “This is Sander, our new team member.” 

“Nice to see you again, man.” 

“You’ve already met?”

“Yeah, he was with Lotte yesterday when—” Moyo cuts off his sentence and starts fiddling with the straps on his gloves while Amber grimaces. Sander shifts his gaze between them. 

“How are the pilots?” he ventures. 

Moyo shrugs. “One of them is fine, made it out with a dislocated shoulder and a couple of bruises but the other...he’s in a coma. Shock-induced, I think Zoë said. But hopefully by the time he wakes up, she’ll be prepped and primed.” Moyo gestures up at Fox Enigma’s frame. He opens his mouth to say more, but a loud clatter from the rigs pulls their attention. 

Someone must have accidentally hit a button in the conn-pod because a circle of propulsion jets around the upper left arm suddenly activates, yanking it free from the rigs, and starts tugging it upwards. 

Sander clears his throat. “Is it supposed to be doing that?” 

Moyo looks pained for a second and blows air out his cheeks. He says, “No...no, I can’t say that’s intentional” and speaking into his comms: “Someone pull the power cord now! Before we lose the left arm, too...fuck’s sake.” He walks off, and Sander is left standing with Amber.

It is no lie that the Hong Kong Shatterdome was never the most organised but Sander doesn’t know if he should laugh or worry at this point. Both Amber and Moyo look a bit too young to be heading a mission like this as do the rest of the team around them. Sander himself would be considered younger than average, at age 20, but it is widely known that the lifespan of a Shatterdome employee isn't exactly lengthy.

Amber chuckles nervously and claps her hands together, addressing Sander. “Anyway, let’s get you suited up and we can get to work.” 

\---

In his new khaki overalls, Sander looks down into a tablet, scratching his neck with the flat edge of his pliers. 

He’s going through Enigma’s blueprints, matching her up with different kinds of fire-arms. It had bothered him, seeing her so exposed. He had stayed awake until late, drawing up designs until he felt satisfied. 

In Tokyo, firepower had always been key. No matter how sleek and stream-lined the robots had been on the outside, the inner workings were complex. With Enigma, it seems like the opposite. Her weapons are lacking, the panelling vulnerable, synapse system under-developed, and the conn-pod nearly unprotected. 

It’s a wonder the pilots made it back alive. 

With a tired flick of his hand, Sander brings Enigma’s blueprints up onto the big display. She took a lot of damage, but the repairs seem fairly straightforward. He’s about to call Amber over for a consult, but is interrupted by a loud and accusatory “hey!”. 

There follows a clamber of protests, and Sander shifts his gaze from the displays, startled. He hears the boy before he sees him, wrestling his way onto the rig. He is held back at the half-way point by Moyo, but the boy pushes against him and shouts over the technician’s shoulder. “Don’t you dare touch her!” 

His back is to Sander, but he turns slightly to fish-mouth at the platform trucks rolling in that are piled with various missiles, blasters, and parts of chest cannons. “No way. Absolutely not. You’re going nowhere near her with those.” 

_Is this another technician?_ Sander tilts his head at him. He’s not wearing the olive overalls. He’s actually dressed quite casual, with loose-fit trousers and a green hoodie about two sizes too big for him. Sander moves closer to hear the conversation. 

Moyo has his hands on the boy’s shoulders, but he shrugs them off. 

“Are you out of your minds? Marshal told me what you’re doing. Enigma is an _agility_ jaeger. Speed, not force! Putting all this”—he makes a disgusted face at the trucks driving past—” _shit_ on her is going to slow her down, which is more likely to get us killed than any Cat-IV.” 

“She needs more backup out there. Speed isn’t enough.” 

“We can manage.” 

Sander immediately bristles. No wonder the jaeger came back so damaged with this type of nonchalant behaviour. Two people nearly died because of Enigma's lack of defense systems and they call that _managing_? 

Sander can’t help himself. “Yeah, you’re managing fine, by the looks of it.” 

“Sander,” Moyo’s tone is wavering, hesitant. “Don’t.” 

But he tunes him out when the boy turns to him with narrowed eyes. When Sander realises that this is _him_ , the boy he saw that first morning, passing through the corridors. His cheekbones look even prettier in this light, and it’s enough to short-circuit Sander's brain a little, but he continues, “I’m just saying, look where that got you.” He points at Enigma in her dock. “She came back nearly torn in half, the kaiju was _this_ close to making it past the border, and one of the pilots is comatose in med bay.” 

The boy blinks slowly. “Who—sorry, who are you?” 

“Sander, new technician.” 

Something akin to recognition flashes in the boy’s eyes, and Sander wonders if he remembers that first day. The moment Sander would rather not admit to playing over and over in his head. He just prays he doesn’t remember the handcuffs. 

“Well, Sander, keep your hands off my jaeger,” he says slowly. 

Sander draws back in surprise. “ _Your_ jaeger?” 

_Could this be Lotte’s brother?_ He supposes they both have dark hair, the same soft brown eyes. Closer up, Sander can see stitches in his eyebrow, cuts on his upper cheeks and jawline. There are dark circles under his eyes and he looks completely exhausted, but there is a determined expression on his face, like he refuses to lose.

When reviewing the footage of the fight, Sander had never seen inside the conn-pod; he never saw the pilots’ faces. But to tell the truth, the boy in front of him was not what he was expecting. He is several inches shorter than Moyo and his narrow frame is mostly hidden by his hoodie, left arm still wrapped in a black sling. If it weren’t for those fiery eyes, Sander never would have placed him somewhere like the Jaeger program. He can’t help it; he scoffs lightly. “Didn’t know they let children into the fleet.” 

It’s a joke. It’s a horrible attempt at a joke, and it backfires spectacularly. Those gentle doe eyes go dark. 

“Didn’t know they let criminals into the Academy,” the boy retorts lowly, only for Sander to hear. So he does remember. Goddammit. 

Sander lets a slow unaffected smile spread over his face, one he managed to perfect during his time in Tokyo. This boy is testing him, and there’s something in the way he meets Sander’s eyes head-on and the way the light hits his face that just...makes him _want_. 

He wets his lips. “Look, Ranger-” 

“Robbe?” A lilting voice comes from behind Sander. The girl standing there wears a pilot recruit jacket, her hair in a short bob and bangs, lipstick a deep red. The same girl who had held the pilot by the shoulders on that first day. “Lotte is looking for you.” 

The boy’s body language changes in two seconds flat, eyes widening and shoulders relaxing. So, he _is_ Lotte’s brother. He, _Robbe_ , inhales, glances one more time at Sander and then turns to Moyo. “I—Don’t touch her. Don’t do anything.” He spots a technician powering up a welding tool a few feet away, and points an accusatory finger at her. “Hey, you! You put that down. Hear me? Put it down.” He raises a challenging eyebrow at the woman before moving past Sander and out of the launch bay.

Shaking his head in exasperation, Moyo walks up to Sander. “Precious, isn’t he?” 

And Sander knows he’s being sarcastic, but he can’t help but wholly agree. 

////

The next few days pass in a blur. 

He had forgotten at how high a tempo the Shatterdome operates. On top of Enigma’s repairs, a handful of technicians had been assigned to development of the new jaeger fleet. During his second week, Sander was allotted a shiny Mark-9 jaeger structure that looked like it came straight off a production line. It was Sander’s job to equip it with weapons and exterior panels. 

It didn’t help that his mind was still occupied with Enigma. Last night, he had spotted the keychain of his motorbike hanging off his bedside lamp and it gave him an idea. A stupid idea that might not even work, but he had sat for hours at his desk, filling the screen with new blueprint designs, which was probably the cause of his stiff neck. 

Now slumping into his seat in the mess hall, he massages at the base of his neck with tired fingers. 

Someone slides into place across from him. He looks up, expecting to see Amber or Moyo but he spots them still in the cafeteria line getting food.

Instead his eyes meet Lotte’s. 

“Hey, shortie.” Sander finds himself surprised to see her, but he doesn’t know why. It has been a week since the kaiju breach, and the Shatterdome has settled back into routine but Sander thinks it must feel different for her somehow, having a family member continuously risking their life. 

“I brought this for you.” She slides a dessert cup over. It’s frosty around the edges, Sander reckons it’s probably ice-cream. 

He lets out a chuckle. “Thanks kiddo, but you should have it. How are things?” 

“Oh, they’re fine,” she says dismissively, suddenly looking very serious for a nine year old. “And the dessert isn’t free. I need you to do me a favour.” 

It startles a laugh out of him. “Sure, okay. Hit me.” 

“I never told anyone about sneaking out," she blurts. 

Sander exhales slowly. “Lotte…” 

Her shoulders concave. “I know, I know. I just...don’t want to stress anyone out, especially not right now. Please just promise me you won’t tell anyone.” 

Sander chews on his lip. He nods once. “I promise.” Lotte goes a bit quiet and Sander clears his throat, snagging the cup off the table. “But this better be worth it.” 

He pops the lid off the cup and takes a dramatic whiff. “Is that chocolate fudge brownie I smell? My favourite.” 

It makes her smile and pull the sleeves of her sweater over her hands. Sander feels an odd sense of protectiveness over a little girl he met only days ago. “Being a kid still has its perks. You get freebies from the lunch assistants.” She says the last part in a fake-whisper. 

“You make me so proud, little criminal.”

Lotte’s shoulders lift close to her ears with a proud grin before she starts to rise from her seat. With the ice-cream spoon in his mouth, Sander makes a noise of protest, holding out his hand to stop her. Quickly rifling through a pocket of his tech jumpsuit, he pulls out a slip of paper and hands it over. He really hopes he didn’t get any oil stains on it. 

“Here,” he mumbles around the spoon. He doesn’t watch her open it up, very much focused on digging a chunk of brownie from the bottom, but he hears her sharp intake of breath and looks up. 

“You drew this?” Her eyes are shining and Sander suddenly worries she might cry. He shrugs. Falling asleep last night hadn’t been easy. Sometime around midnight he found himself sketching images of dark brown eyes and sharp cheekbones instead of jaeger blueprints so he forced his attention elsewhere. He drew Lotte, piloting her favourite jaeger Titan Prophet and fighting off a kaiju. He had made sure to scribble Cat-V in big underlined letters in the corner. Lots of exclamation points, too. 

“Thank you,” she says quietly. 

Sander raises the ice-cream cup in cheers and watches her as she wanders off, staring at the drawing. He absentmindedly hears Amber plop down in front of him, but he glances over his shoulder to see Lotte approach a table at the far back, where Robbe sits with the other pilots. A few cadets are there, too, along with the short-haired girl from the launch bay in her uniform. Everyone at the table seems to be chatting, except for Robbe who is staring at the empty space on the bench opposite him, chewing on his hoodie strings. 

“That’s Jens' seat,” Amber says, sympathy in her voice. “His co-pilot.” 

Sander sees Lotte hesitate by the table, seemingly contemplating taking that seat until she changes course. She moves to sit next to Robbe instead, close to his side. Robbe blinks back into himself when Lotte nudges his arm with her shoulder and gives him a reassuring smile. The pilot visibly relaxes, eyes glistening. 

And when he presses a quick kiss to her head, affectionate and brotherly, Sander’s chest tightens with unknown emotion.

///

“I can’t believe you studied in _Tokyo,_ man.”

They’ve been over this. A couple times. More than a couple times, actually, and Sander rolls his eyes. “I can’t believe I just listened to you rap about display circuits for a full five minutes,” he tells Moyo. “But here we are.” 

Here they are, camped out in the empty conn-pod of Sander’s new Mark-9 jaeger during their break. The cafeteria had felt too far away, so they had nearly pillaged the vending machines for granola bars and energy drinks, and Sander had led them to the unnamed project mech he had been assigned. 

Moyo is lounging in the cradle of the conn-pod’s escape hatch, leg dangling off the side while Sander sits on the floor, resting his back against the wall with Ziggy’s head in his lap. Moyo quickly polishes off three granola bars and scooches to lie down, pulling out his tablet to play a game. Sander props a leg up to rest his notebook against as he draws some random images; first a jaeger with propeller blades, then one with wings, which soon turned into outlines of angels, shadings of Ziggy’s paws, detailed drawings of hands, lightning bolts. 

“Hearing my rap is a privilege and I wish you would treat it as such,” Moyo deadpans and kicks out at Sander’s hip, nearly catching on his arm and making him drop his pencil. Sander elbows back and grins.

Before lunch, they had been working hard on Enigma. He had sat with Moyo and Amber, showing them his ideas, and they finalised the end-design. Sander had left the hangar feeling satisfied, but he has yet to send the proposals off to LOCCENT. He is not sure why, but he needs one more stamp of approval before anything is sent off; the approval of a certain Ranger. 

Having zoned out, Sander realises he had been drawing familiar brown eyes in the margins again and he pulls back, frowning. 

“Dude, you’re so screwed.” He hears from Moyo and he freezes, heart in his throat. He looks up at the other technician only to see he was talking to his game. Sander chews on his pencil. He bounces his leg, thinking it over for a bit and when he finally decides to open his mouth and ask about Robbe, a voice at the entrance interrupts the silence instead. 

“This is what you guys do with your break time, just sit around?” Amber sounds unimpressed and frankly a little bit disappointed. Ziggy’s tail starts to wag, but then again, it does that for everyone. 

“That’s kind of the purpose of a break, Amber,” Moyo pipes up from behind his tablet.

She shakes her head, and claps her hands together before beckoning them upwards. “Nope, come on, get up. Let’s go do something fun.” Before she can get closer, Sander snaps his notebook shut and stuffs it inside his bag while Moyo stretches out in a dramatic yawn and rises to his feet, not without complaining. 

“Something like what?” 

She suddenly looks very pleased. “Watching a bunch of recruits beat the shit out of each other.” 

“I like the way you think, Miss Snoeckx.” Sander shoulders his bag and wraps an arm around her shoulder. He rubs a few knuckles into her blond head until she pushes him off. 

\---

When the door opens up to the combat room, Sander immediately flashes back to his pilot training. 

First year cadets are put through a gruelling 14 hours of intense training every day, and are taught every martial art known to man. Sander’s core muscles twinge at the memory. 

The familiarity of the steel beams, the strange echoes off of cement walls, the sounds of wood hitting wood, the sparring mat in the middle of the room. The cadets line up on one side, the fightmaster standing at the front while Amber, Moyo, and Sander join the group of spectators huddled in the archway. 

And when Sander sees his mother watching the recruits as well, he realises _so this is compatibility testing_. Here, the cadets are supposed to find their match, their co-pilot.

Sander had never gotten to this point in training. The Marshal meets his eyes and seems to see exactly what he’s thinking because her eyes soften a little. Sander gives her a small smile but looks away. 

Roughly ten minutes into the testing session, Sander finds himself relaxing. A pair of cadets are sparring on the mat. It’s the girl with a black bob and a nose-piercing—the fightmaster calls her name out as N. Bauwens—along with a curly-haired guy named A. Jacobs. And Sander only needs a couple of seconds to see that the two don’t match up. Considering the fact that he had spent most of his time in Tokyo analysing fighting patterns, this is easy. 

He leans down to speak to Amber.

“They’re not going to be compatible.” 

“What? How do you know?”

“She is too fast. He throws his weight forward too much. Also, they’re both left-handed.”

And he’s right. The girl knocks Jacobs on his back, and she wins four-to-one. They didn’t even last two minutes in the ring together. 

Amber gives him a look and Sander lifts one shoulder. 

“Bet you can’t predict the next one.” 

But he does. Over and over again. He’s in the middle of telling Amber how a cadet with the last name Ackermans is going with a reverse strike as her last move against an older cadet named V. Deruwe when Amber slugs him in the arm, brows furrowed. 

The fightmaster calls for an end of the session, and Amber glares at Sander. “That’s not fair.” 

Sander holds his hands up, grin smug. Over her head, he sees his mother searching the crowd, probably looking for him, so he ducks out of the archway, follows after Amber. Moyo had stayed behind to talk to some of the recruits. 

In the hallway, Amber is checking her watch, her smile triumphant and sickeningly sweet. “Well, my shift has ended. I can take Ziggy while you work, but have fun, loser.” She kisses her palm at him and wiggles her fingers, walking backwards to the exit. 

Sander holds up a middle finger and Amber, turning on her heel with Ziggy trotting next to her, shouts a fond “love you, too!”. He rolls his eyes. 

There is a shortcut back to the launch bay through the training quarters so Sander heads in the opposite direction of Amber, walking further down the hallway. The rooms seem pretty empty, Sander supposes because compatibility testing is over, but near the end of the hallway, he hears that familiar sound of wood hitting wood again. 

Moving closer, the sounds getting louder, he peeks around the corner of one of the rooms and spots another pair sparring on a mat. 

These two definitely aren’t cadets. They move too fast and far more skillfully than any of the recruits he saw today. Looking for a bit longer, Sander’s jaw goes slack when he realises that it is Ijzermans. 

He’s fighting a girl Sander recognizes from the mess hall, Yasmina, a K-Science officer. She looks at Robbe with a kind of familiar fondness, as if they have known each other for a while, twirling a wooden staff around her fingers with a grin. 

Later, Amber would tell him that they had been drift partners in training before Robbe had teamed up with Jens and Yasmina had switched to K-Science, but she doesn’t really have to; it is plainly obvious just by watching them. While Robbe keeps the upper hand, swatting at his opponent almost cockily, Yasmina still matches him step for step. She scores a point, going for Robbe’s midsection. 

“2-1. Losing your touch, golden boy?” she asks with amusement in her voice. 

Robbe ducks at one of her advances and smacks the staff against her back. “2-2. Not a chance.” 

When he scores a point, she follows up not long after, and Sander watches amazed from the sidelines. They don’t seem to have noticed him, too wrapped up in their match. 

The way they circle each other, analysing the other’s movements, is fascinating. 

At first glance, Sander hadn’t really seen how someone as small as Robbe could pilot a jaeger, but he is lithe, fast, agile, and he’s got all of Fox Enigma’s moves in him. Fuck, he _created_ all of those moves, Sander amends. He moves even faster than Yasmina, scoring a quick fourth point with a side-block aimed at her throat, stopping just before it makes contact. 

Robbe moves a bit too fast for Sander to get a good glimpse at him, but he wouldn’t have been able to tear his eyes away at all if it weren’t for a whisper at his ear. “Hey.” 

Sander startles, shoulder roughly jerking back into Moyo, who must have finished chatting with the recruits. 

“Woah, man,” the technician lets out a laugh. “You’re so jumpy. Who are you perving on, then?” 

Sander almost stops him, but Moyo sneaks around the corner and immediately exclaims, “Yo, Robbe! What are you doing here?” and adding a “hey, Yaz”. Sander sighs and presses his head to the wall, rolling his forehead against the cold concrete before stepping into the room, too. 

Moyo's got his elbows on the railing surrounding the lowered sparring area and Sander joins him warily. Actually getting a good look at Robbe now, Sander sees the pilot's eyes darken a little bit when he spots him. The dark circles have remained under his eyes, but the small cuts on his face seem to have mostly healed. His wrapped hands fidget at his side and where he is clutching the wooden staff, and his chest is heaving and…

Okay. 

Here’s the thing. 

Maybe Sander had been wrong. Which happens. Not often, but it happens. 

In the beginning, Sander barely believed Robbe was even qualified for the jaeger program; on first appearance, he looked scrawny, too short and too thin to control a massive 250 feet robot. 

Looking at him now, Sander realises he had been very, very wrong. 

The boy is small, sure. His shoulders are a bit narrow, stature wiry. But dressed in a black compression shirt hugging every part of his torso instead of those loose bulky hoodies, all the gentle curves of muscles are clearly visible. 

Robbe leans on his staff, a healthy flush on his cheeks, likely from exertion. “Can’t really do drift testing without a partner, can I? Or a functioning jaeger for that matter.” 

Sander knows that last part is aimed at him if the accompanying glare is anything to go by. Sander would glare back. He really would. Only if Robbe didn’t look so good while doing it. 

And even though Moyo shares the exact amount of blame for Fox Enigma’s redesign, Robbe’s eyes still soften and lower at him when he chuckles, glancing between Robbe and Sander. Moyo then waves a hand at the scientist. “Yasmina, meet Sander. He’s just transferred to the tech team.” 

“Oh? Transferred from where?” Yasmina has just put her wooden staff back in its place and is picking up a white coat from a nearby bench.

Moyo play-punches giddily at his bicep when Sander begrudgingly responds “from Tokyo”, like that is an accreditation in and of itself. 

Robbe’s brow furrows, clearly not expecting that answer, and Sander can’t blame him; his first impression of him had been him trailing behind the Marshal, flanked by guards and handcuffed. The connection isn’t easy to make. 

“Well...welcome to Hong Kong.” She swings a lanyard carrying her ID badge around her neck and puts her lab coat on, which should clash with her cargo trousers and boots, but she somehow makes it work. She touches a quick hand to Robbe’s elbow. “I have to get back to the lab. I’ll see you later.” 

“Nice to meet you, Sander,” she says as she passes them and he responds with a half wave goodbye.

Moyo slaps the back of his hand against Sander’s shoulder. “What do you say, man? Fancy a spar?” Moyo nods at Robbe with a grin. “You up for one more?” 

Sander takes no pleasure in the way the Robbe’s features stiffen, mouth instantly falling open, about to protest the idea of having to spar against Sander, so he suddenly feels very relieved when his comms sputter at his wrist. 

**Sander? Come in, Sander.** It is one of the other technicians on the team. 

He answers with a deep exhale. “Yeah, what’s up?” 

**Malfunction in Bay 6.**

“On my way,” Sander says and spots Robbe shifting his weight. “Raincheck?” He says it with a certain level of sarcasm, not really meaning it since he doubts Robbe will ever take him up on it. Trying to hurry from the room, he drags Moyo with him out into the hallway.

They don’t get far before Robbe calls out after them. “Wait!” 

Still walking, they glance back and see Robbe jogging after them, shrugging a grey hoodie on and zipping it up. 

“Bay 6? That’s Enigma. What’s wrong with her?” 

“Nothing big, probably just a system bug.” 

“System bug? What are you guys doing to her?” 

Moyo gives a surprised chuckle and falls back to wrap an arm around Robbe. “You make it sound like we’re stripping her for parts. It’s just a few upgrades, don’t worry.” 

“I’m one of the pilots, I should know what’s going on.” 

“By all means, Ranger," Sander starts. "tag along then, if you’re so curious,” As if Robbe wasn’t already hot on his heels. 

“See, she’s fine.” Sander gestures with an arm when they enter the repair bay. 

He had fully prepared for storming off after Moyo towards the conn-pod, but when he sees the way Robbe takes in Enigma’s appearance, he falters and stays back.

If there is one thing Sander has learned about Robbe so far, it’s that he has the worst poker-face. Every emotion is displayed so clearly across his features; they come one by one: awe, relief, nostalgia, sadness. Sander imagines he’s thinking about his co-pilot still comatose in the med bay. 

Fox Enigma has gone through most of her repairs, the arm almost fully reattached and the gashes at her shoulder and waist completely patched up. The only thing left is the fitting of the new weapons and gear that are yet to be sent off to LOCCENT. 

That reminds Sander. He takes a breath, ready to tell the other that he has something to show him, but the pilot beats him to it by pointing a finger at Sander’s work corner, a mess of tables and blackboards with papers, blueprints and pieces of tech strewn about. “What’s all this then?” 

Sander lowers his chin, lips quirking. “The upgrades.” 

And just like that, Robbe is on edge again. “I thought I told you-” 

“I know what you told me. Message received, loud and clear, trust me.” 

But he still looks suspicious so Sander walks round to the other side of the table and shuffles through some blueprints. “Here. I haven’t taken these to LOCCENT yet. Thought you might want to be the first to see.” 

Robbe approaches him slowly, eyes slightly less hostile, and slides the designs towards himself. He picks them up gingerly. 

Sander rests a hip against the table, body facing Robbe. “You were right before. Heavy machinery is only going to slow you down. Enigma is about agility, flexibility, speed. The only real problem you guys have is that the Kaijus have learning curves. They read your heat signatures and learn to predict your moves. But I figure that if they can’t actually see you, they’ll have nothing.” 

The boy shoots him a confused look. Sander gives him a small smile and reaches for another set of blueprints on the other side of Robbe, making their shoulders graze. Sander’s nerve endings are suddenly firing up, palms starting to sweat. 

He has no idea why he feels nervous showing Robbe his ideas. At the Tokyo Shatterdome, he frequently had to present projects to a panel of professors, but none of that compares to putting his designs into Robbe’s hands. 

“We, uh, could install reflective panels on her framework, and thermo gauges beneath them that match her external surface temperature to the air, meaning the kaiju can’t see you nor get a read on your heat signatures.”

“Wait, are you saying we—we’d be...invisible?” 

Sander twists his lips, weighing his head side to side. “Well, more of a camouflage, but that’s the idea, yeah.” He has never tried the tech out on anything bigger than his motorbike, but he is confident it will work. He’ll _make_ it work. 

Especially when it gets Robbe looking at him like this; eyes softer than Sander has ever seen them. “Not bad, tech.” 

The corners of Sander’s mouth tug up, insides feeling considerably warmer than before despite the cold air inside the hangar.

Robbe moves as if to speak, but is interrupted by the beep of his comms. 

**Robbe?**

“Yeah, Zoë.” The boy’s hands move over the papers, fiddling with the corners, all of a sudden looking like he’s been caught doing something he shouldn’t. 

Sander swallows, realising that they had been standing a lot closer than he thought. If he wanted, he could have leaned forward the slightest and his chest would touch Robbe's upper arm. Lowering his eyes, he sees a golden chain hanging around his neck, half caught by the compression shirt, pendant hidden underneath. 

**Robbe...Jens has woken up.**

Robbe’s hands freeze on the table. His ribcage goes still; Sander thinks he might have stopped breathing. The boy turns to him, fidgeting like he doesn’t know what to do, eyes glistening. 

Sander prompts him to move with a jerk of his chin, and mouths “go” at him. He nods, dazed and backs away from the table, shaky. He starts off slowly but then launches into a sprint towards med bay. 

Sander is left staring after him, until he spots Moyo who raises an eyebrow at him over his work-screen. Sander starts arranging the papers on the desk, wondering what the hell he got himself into when his mother dropped that USB into his palm. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if you actually made it to the end of this, I love you


	3. VOL II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> they're best friends, your honor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry this took so long! this chapter was supposed to be much much longer but I decided to split it into two chapters bc it was getting wordy and a bit overwhelming so here is the first part. hope you enjoy!

For a place that operates 24 hours, the Shatterdome goes real quiet at night. 

Sander yawns into the sleeve of his jumpsuit, trudging his way through the near-empty hallways after having stayed up working on his new Mark-9 jaeger. The halls are almost too quiet, it unsettles him. He is so used to the pitter patter of Ziggy's paws behind him, but tonight Amber is babysitting.

He takes the shortcut through the training quarters, passing by a couple of sparring rooms that—to Sander's surprise—aren't empty. Recruits still train at this hour, working on a painstakingly rigorous schedule. Sander thinks he even glimpses some pilot jackets along the way.

If it weren't for the empty corridors, Sander might not even know it was night. The Shatterdome is so heavily sheltered, with almost no sunlight breaking through, that distinguishing between night and day can get real hard. 

Sander sighs in relief once he reaches his destination. The kitchens. 

Slipping inside, he doesn't bother turning the lights on; he knows this place by heart. Sneaking into the Shatterdome kitchens is something he's been doing since he was a adolescent whenever his mum worked late hours and he found himself sleepless. 

He taps out the melody of a random song stuck in his head, knuckles against the metal tabletops, as he makes his way to the row of fridges in the back. Because if his memory serves him...

"Bingo," he says to himself when he cracks the fridge door open, squints against the harsh light, and finds a tub of ice-cream on the top shelf. It's plain vanilla, but Sander is not going to be picky now. He just needs something to satisfy his sweet tooth. If Amber saw him now, she'd throw a fit for sure. 

He is opening a drawer to fetch a spoon when suddenly, the lights switch on. 

And rounding the corner, comes Robbe. 

Who stops in his tracks when he sees Sander. "Oh. Hey." 

"Hey." 

Robbe seems to have come straight from the gym; cheeks warm, headphones hanging off his neck, dressed in sweatpants and sneakers. He's got a baggy hoodie on, but the neckline hangs low enough for Sander to glimpse his compression shirt clinging to his collarbones.

Sander scoffs, trying to hide the fact that all the air just whooshed from his lungs. "Does no one ever sleep around here?" 

Robbe steps further into the kitchen. "Says the one sneaking around in the dark." His eyes shift to where Sander's hands are searching through the drawers. "Guess old habits die hard, huh?" 

Ouch. Maybe Sander deserves that one. But he holds his hands up defensively, palms forward. "As far as I'm aware, ice-cream is a free-for-all. This doesn't count." 

Robbe raises an eyebrow, lips quirking slightly in amusement, which Sander takes as something like an opportunity so he pops the lid on the ice-cream.

“Look, I think we got off on the wrong foot,” he begins. He pushes the ice-cream tub forward, edging it towards Robbe, in a not-so-subtle peace offering. “Start over?” 

The pilot contemplates it for a while, too long, and Sander nearly holds his breath. He doesn’t think he’s ever hung onto someone’s words like this. Then Robbe lowers his chin and hums. “You gotta do better than plain vanilla for that.” He inclines his head towards the fridge behind Sander. “First shelf on the left, the yellow one.” 

Sander eyes him, but follows his lead with a shrug, opening the door and pulling out a rectangular tub the colour of buttercups. He reads the label on the top and lets out a confused chuckle. “Pickled relish. I usually prefer sprinkles on mine, but to each their own.” 

It gets a proper laugh out of Robbe this time, and Sander is enamoured. 

Shaking his head, the boy says, “Open it.”

Sander tugs the lid off and immediately grins at what definitely isn’t pickled relish. “A secret stash. And…” he lifts the tub up for a sniff to confirm. “Chocolate brownie. A man with taste.” 

Robbe has his hands on the edge of the counter, leaning forward. There is a band aid still on his temple and his face looks drawn, but his eyes are shining, almost giddy. “The one labelled mayonnaise is salted caramel.” When Sander gives him a look, he lifts one shoulder. “It’s the only way to keep the recruits out of the good stuff.” 

Smirking, Sander levels his spoon at him, nudging the fridge door closed with his foot. “My kind of guy.” And his eyes may be lying, but there is a distinct flush on the tops of Robbe’s cheeks that definitely wasn't there before.

The boy lowers his gaze. “Listen, I, uh, I wanted to apologise. What you’re doing for Enigma, it’s good. Really good. I didn’t get a chance to…” 

Sander thinks back to two days ago in the repair bay. How could he forget? Robbe staring up at his jaeger in poorly concealed awe, expression softening when Sander showed him the new designs, and then the look on his face when he received a comm from med bay telling him that Jens had awoken. 

"How is he?" Sander asks solemnly. 

Robbe shifts his shoulders, voice going weak. "Banged up. He drifts in and out, but he'll be okay." The way he speaks makes Sander think he is really only saying it to reassure himself.

The connection between jaeger pilots has never been able to be fully explained. It is often described as something closer to soulmates rather than a simple neural link. In the Drift, pilots share everything; memories, emotions, skills, language. All to make them more compatible. Sander wonders what that feels like. 

Sander hands him a spoon and he takes it gratefully. With a full scoop of brownie in his mouth, Robbe waves a finger at the side of his neck and mumbles, “you’ve got a little something there.” 

Sander touches two fingers to his neck. His fingers come away greasy with oil. “Oh shit.” He bends down awkwardly and wipes at the stain with the sleeve of the overalls he has wrapped around his waist. 

“So, how’s that going?” Robbe asks tentatively, nodding at Sander’s technician’s outfit. “Your first week and all.” 

Sander gives up; he’ll get the stain later. “Uh, pretty good. Nice people. Amber though…” He blows air out of his cheeks and it makes Robbe chuckle.

"Yeah, she can be...intense." The expression Robbe wears turns fond and it makes Sander curious. 

"You guys known each other long?" 

Robbe heaves a contemplative sigh. "Pretty long. A lot of us were recruited from the same school in Antwerp. But the Belgian crew all stay close together, like...well, kind of like family, I suppose."

"Sounds nice." 

Robbe purses his lips, murmurs a soft "yeah". 

Sander watches him for a second before shaking himself out of it. He points his spoon down at the ice-cream, humming. "This is missing something. Hold on a sec." He starts rifling through the fridge again. "If I remember correctly..." he mumbles. Getting his hand around a canister at the far back, hidden behind some actual pickled relish, he smiles smugly. He brings it out and Robbe tries to hold back a laugh when Sander starts spraying whipped cream liberally on the lid from the ice-cream tub, using it as a makeshift plate.

"What do you mean 'if you remember correctly'? You been in here often then?" 

"I've been in here _before_." 

Robbe tilts his head at him, and Sander realises his mistake, frowning. 

"Uh, long story." 

Robbe slowly nods and suddenly it's like something has been closed off, the dismissive tone of Sander's voice having dropped everything cold. They eat their ice-cream in silence, and Sander immediately wishes he could take his words back.

He wants to tell Robbe everything. 

///

"Ziggy, I'm trying to work." 

The labrador whimpers and paws at his shoulders. 

They've done this routine before. 

Scavenging often involves crawling through cramped spaces, spaces both Sander and Ziggy can't fit in together. And Sander has tried. He has tried to get Ziggy to stay outside but she never listens. All while Sander is squeezing between wall spaces, or under engines, she teeths at his boots, paws at his ankles, tugs at his sleeves, anything to get him back out.

She isn't listening now, either, with Sander wedged between the pilot foot holds, working on the gears underneath. Sander's consistent admonishing doesn't stop her from trying to crawl in there with him. 

"You can't fit under here," he tells her. 

He only receives a bark in response. 

"Okay, okay, give me a second. You big baby." He'll just finish this last adjustment before giving in. He fumbles around in his work tote for his bolt wrench, but it isn't there. He mutters a curse. Reaching up over the edge where he is too far down to see, he starts fumbling around, searching for what he needs. He is about to call out to Ziggy, even though she really is no help at all, when something cold and metal is placed right into his palm. He frowns, pulls it towards him and it is indeed a bolt wrench. "Ziggy?" he questions, but fixes the last bolt anyway. He expects another bark from her, but instead a head peeks over the edge. 

“Lotte?” Sander pushes with his hands, hoisting himself out of the gear pit to sit on the rim. “Hey, kid. Thought you weren’t allowed here.” He slips greasy work gloves off, tosses them aside to reach for a remote lying by his tool kit and lowers the volume on the speakers currently blasting Bowie. 

She pointedly ignores his last words. “Need help?” 

Sander raises his eyebrows at her where she is enthusiastically scratching under Ziggy’s chin. “Why do I feel like this whole ‘keep a secret’ thing is going to come back and bite me in the ass?” he muses. Now that he and Robbe had made such progress—as in, having a proper conversation without snapping at each other—the last thing he wants to do right now is give the boy another reason to hate him.

Looking at Lotte now, the two aren’t very similar in looks but there are some of Robbe’s mannerisms in her. Her gentle eyes, the set of her shoulders, the way she chews on her hoodie strings. Sander sighs. 

“Fine,” he gives in, shifting his legs over. “You can help me with the cabling. Bring that wire tape over here, will you? And put on some goggles or something.” He vaguely gestures out with a hand towards the work-table as he kneels next to the pilots' motion rigs, gets his fingers around a handle in the floor and tugs. A panel pops up and Sander swings it to the side, exposing long lines of cable underneath. 

Lotte sets herself down, cross-legged by the edge, cradling the roll of tape in her hands and now sporting work goggles that look ten sizes too big for her face. “What’s her call sign?” she asks, referring to the jaeger. 

“Uhm,” Sander mumbles around the handle of a knife, eyes on the oily wires in front of him. He had forgotten where he tossed his gloves, but can’t be bothered to look for them. He sets his blade against the cabling, cutting at the tape wound around it. “Undecided.” 

“Do you get to name her?” 

Sander almost scoffs and tells her he has no way near that type of clearance but for the eager and excited look on her face, it’s a yes for now. He gives a vague nod. 

“What are you going to call her?” 

Sander tilts his head, focused on the wires. “Snowflake. Or Twinkletoes. I’m leaning more towards Twinkletoes.” He dares a mischievous glance up at the girl’s face to see her expression gone horrified. He laughs. “Why? You got a better one for me?” 

She responds quickly and by the determined way she says it, she has given it a lot of thought. “Victory.”

Surpised, Sander ponders it and glances around the conn-pod. “I like the sound of that.” He nods up at the controls. “Maybe you’ll get to pilot her one day.” 

“Don’t you want to?” Her question is perfectly innocent and she is probably just asking to be polite, Sander rationalises. But he can’t help the familiar sting beneath his ribcage at the thought of piloting again. That same feeling of longing. 

He smiles at her, but it is strained. “We’ll see, kiddo.” 

He turns his focus back to rewiring the circuits, reconnecting and twisting the long lines of cable together until he is satisfied. Then, he asks Lotte for the protective tape in her hands. She thrusts it forward, clearly happy to be of help. 

When he is done taping the cable back together and Lotte has stopped gawking, fascinated by what he’s doing, she points at his hands and scrunches her nose. “What is that?” 

Sander glances at his palms, covered in a brown-black sludge from the wiring. “Oh, it’s oil. To grease the wires.” 

She makes a face. “Gross.” 

Sander gasps dramatically and shakes his head. “No, it’s great for the skin. Here, try some.” He puts his arm out to touch her cheek but she squeals and jerks back. “What, you don’t trust me?” 

The girl laughs and jumps to her feet when Sander tries again. 

He’s not going to lie; Sander hasn’t spent a lot of time with kids. There aren’t a lot of them in the Shatterdomes and he figures Lotte and Robbe must be some special case. Briefly, he finds himself wondering where their parents are, but then Lotte laughs again as he chases her around the conn-pod with sticky hands. 

“Come on, kiddo, it’s not going to hurt you.” 

Sander sees Lotte lunge for the doorway, Ziggy bouncing at her heels, and he is about to round a pillar to intercept her, but his outstretched hand connects with something solid that definitely isn’t a small girl. 

Sander immediately straightens his back when he sees who he collided with. 

“I can never catch a break with you, can I?” he asks Robbe, one hand still plastered to the front of the boy’s chest. 

Robbe, who raises his eyebrows at him, sucks in a slow breath through his teeth. “Well, you sure know how to pick your moments. This is my favourite shirt.” His tone is deadpan, and Sander panics. 

He clears his throat and slowly peels his hand off, revealing a stark handprint on his tee, right over his heart. “Shit, sorry.” 

Robbe looks at him steadily before letting a smile slip. “I’m kidding. Trust me, there’s probably hundreds of plain white t-shirts where this came from.” He pinches the fabric between his fingers and pulls it a few inches out. It peels off of his skin with a slick sound. 

Their eyes meet for a few seconds but Sander can’t hold back a snort and neither can Robbe. The pilot catches himself first, quirking his head to one side. “Uh, Amber told me to find you. Something about your comms being offline. She said she needed you in the launch bay.” 

Sander checks his wrist, at the screen on his watch. He might not have heard the call while his music played loud, but checking the logs, he sees no missed calls. “My comms are fine…” 

Robbe is about to shrug it off when a clatter comes from one of the corners of the conn-pod, followed by a soft “uh-oh”. Right, Sander had forgotten Lotte was here. 

Frowning, Robbe clearly recognises the voice. “Lotte? What are you doing here?” 

The girl peaks her head around a cluster of ion cells. “I got lost. Sander was helping me.”

Sander remembers her saying how much her brother disapproved of her being around jaegers so he busies himself with wiping his greasy palms on his overalls when the bemused look on Robbe’s face tells him that he is absolutely not buying any of it. “Yeah...I saw that.” the boy says and then sways a finger between Sander and Lotte. “So, how do you two know eac--”

A sharp bark interrupts him. Probably having hidden with Lotte, Ziggy trots out from behind the ion cells, whole body wagging at the new stranger. 

Robbe's whole body goes soft and his mouth drops open; the way anyone meeting a clumsy dog with floppy ears would react. "Hi," he greets Ziggy with a giggle, and Sander lets Lotte handle the introductions while he processes that Robbe just _giggled_. 

"Aren't you a beauty?" Robbe tells the dog, who places her paw in his hand obediently. Sander bristles. Oh so she takes commands from complete strangers, but not him. That's great. 

Before he gets too distracted by the gentle way Robbe thumbs at Ziggy's ears, he fakes a glance at his watch. "I should probably get going. Don't want to keep Amber waiting." 

Lotte shoots him a look of gratitude, like she is relieved their conversation is over—along with Robbe's potential questions—while Robbe nods in sympathy. “Yeah, I know how she can get.” The pilot holds a hand out for Lotte to take. “Wanna go see Jens?” 

Lotte nods quickly and they make their way to the doorway, but the girl halts them before they turn the corner. “Hey Sander? Please don’t name her Twinkletoes.” 

Sander hums. “It’s a bit too aggressive, huh?”

Robbe’s eyebrows crease, probably feeling like he has missed something. 

“See you, Ijzermans,” Sander calls out to them as they leave. It is aimed at the both of them, but only Robbe turns around to acknowledge it, his quirked mouth putting dimples in his cheek, the black handprint on his t-shirt still very much in shape of Sander's hand, and it suddenly becomes a bit harder for Sander to breathe.

Slowly, the music playing in the background calls Sander’s attention and he belatedly realises what song it is. 

_Hey babe, your hair's alright_   
_Hey babe, let's stay out tonight_   
_You like me, and I like it all_   
_We like dancing and we look divine_

On a whim, Sander picks up some scans off the work table and reads at the top: **Mark-9, unspecified** , followed by an all-too-long serial number. He smirks as an idea pops into his head.

_Rebel rebel, you've torn your dress_   
_Rebel rebel, your face is a mess_   
_Rebel rebel, how could they know?_   
_Hot tramp, I love you so!_

**_Rebel Victory._**

Yeah, he really likes the sound of that.

\----

“Okay, what’s up?” 

Sander walks right up to where Amber is standing and receiving a shipment, eyes focused on her tablet. 

The wind coming off the harbour is brisk and whips at Sander’s hair, but the afternoon sun is enough to warm him in his jumpsuit. He stuffs his hands into his pockets to protect them from the chill. 

Amber hums non-committedly at him, and he sighs and waves a couple fingers in front of her face. It takes another few seconds before she turns her full focus on him, but when she does, she asks, “yeah, what?” 

Sander rolls his eyes. “You summoned?” 

“Oh, right! I’ve got a surprise for you, gimme a sec.” Excited now, she hands the tablet over to another technician, who starts waving trucks in from the bay. She faces him and spreads her arms wide. “You’re going to love me. More than you already do, of course.”

“Of course,” Sander chuckles. 

She leads him over to a stack of crates. 

“Wow,” Sander says in a monotone voice. “Boxes. I do love boxes.” 

The annoyed look she shoots him is so familiar at this point, he could picture it with his eyes closed. Sander has been on the receiving end of it many times. But he has learned that she does it with love. 

She points a finger at him. “Don’t make me regret doing this, now.” 

“Regret doing what, Amber?” he asks, raising his hands incredulously. 

“Cover your eyes,” she says, but after getting no response, groans, “oh come on, just do it.” 

Sander inhales and obeys, compliant when Amber starts pushing at his back, getting him to move. “What is going on? I’m a busy guy, you know.” 

“Hush, this is so much better than anything you could possibly have planned.” 

“Okay, well first of all, fuck you. And second of all—” Sander doesn’t get to finish before Amber stops him and pulls his hands off of his face. His jaw drops open. 

Hidden behind the crates, glinting in the dull sunlight, stands his bike.

Its sleek and smooth design would have screamed Shao Industries if Sander hadn’t tampered with it so much. The motorcycle had been part of his graduation project, a simple demonstration of his cloaking technology, and while building it, his professors had been adamant on keeping the stream-lined, cream white look of the world’s new major technology company. But after shoving his stuff into his duffel, sneaking into the storage bay and driving the bike right out of the Tokyo Shatterdome’s garage—yes, stealing it—he had immediately stripped it, removed all of the tracking devices and spray-painted it black. Along with the red lightning bolt on its side. You know, as a nice little metaphorical middle finger shoved in their faces. 

The bike had stayed with him right up until he was arrested by the PPDC and it was put in processing. 

“Amber...how did you get it back?” 

“Pulled a few strings,” she beams. “The strings being the warden asking for a tour of your new jaeger for his son, and me telling him you’d be absolutely delighted to do it.” She claps him on the shoulder as a joke, but Sander grabs her cheeks and smooches the middle of her forehead dramatically. 

“You are a saint.” 

She grimaces and wipes at her forehead, but her eyes are bright. She tosses him the keys. “You’re welcome.”

Sander approaches the bike, running his fingers over the seat, his silver ring catching on the leather.

“Oh, one more thing,” Amber says, excited. “A few of us are meeting off-base for drinks tonight, you should come.”

Distracted, Sander nods. “Yeah, I’ll be there. And Amber...thank you. Really.” 

“No worries,” she smiles at him, softening. 

///

It's a relief to be in regular clothes for a change. 

Sander has spent the past week changing from greasy jumpsuit to greasy jumpsuit, and it's a small comfort, but putting his leather jacket and jeans back on feels like safety. Dismounting his bike and camouflaging it, he pulls the jacket closer around himself, needing that feeling of security more than ever. 

Down-town Hong Kong isn't exactly a safe place. The street he's on is fairly quiet, but the loud honking and shouting voices from the Bone Slum markets are audible a couple of alleys down.

Amber had sent him the address within seconds of him leaving the launch bay and he brings it up now to double-check he is at the right place. The bar is low-key, almost no markings except for the sign at the top in weak neon lettering, spelling out _Nostalgia_ in Chinese. The door is made out of the rusty beat-up emergency hatch from a conn-pod.

Stolen jaeger tech. Sander wants to laugh at the irony. 

He tucks his hands into his pockets and steps inside. 

The lighting is dim and slightly yellow, throwing odd shades against the wooden beams in the ceiling. The shelved walls behind the bar are lined with bottles in all kinds of shapes, multi-coloured, and with labels in every language Sander can think of. There is a worn sign messily taped on the edge of a shelf—"you puke, you clean". Worn wooden tables, rickety chairs, bar stools covered in a forest green velvet, tiny lights strung up everywhere, sticky floor tiles. 

The bar is dingy as fuck. Everything that Tokyo wasn't. 

Sander loves it. 

By the bar at the far end, Sander spots Amber ordering drinks. He approaches her, taps her on the shoulder. When she turns to him and nearly shouts in his face in acknowledgment, Sander notices her eyes are already a bit glassy. She almost knocks over a bowl of peanuts to grab his shoulder. 

“You made it!” 

“I did.” Sander strains his gaze at her. “How much have you had?” 

For a moment, it seems like she is counting in her head but she gives up, waving it off. “Only a few.” Which might be true, but Sander suspects she also might be a lightweight. “Hey, you took your bike here?” She is pointing at the lightning bolt keychain clutched in his grip, confused. 

“Yeah, I’m not drinking anyways.”

“Why not?” Amber exclaims, half whining. Something sinks inside of Sander at the thought of having to unpack all of _that_ , but thankfully, they are interrupted by the bartender setting two pitchers in front of her and her mood instantly changes. She reaches to take them and jerks her head backwards. “We have a table at the back, come on.” 

Her hold on the pitchers is a bit shaky so Sander mutters a curse and takes one from her. “Here, I’ll help you. And hold that with both hands.” 

She sticks her tongue out at him. 

The round table in the corner is bigger than Sander expected, and seating more people than he could admit to feeling comfortable with. He can't say he does well with big groups. 

Ducking his head to Amber, he asks her “where is Moyo?” 

“Oh, he got stuck on the night shift.” Amber says it like it’s nothing but Sander starts to worry. He only recognises half the people at the table. Moyo is the one he knows best, and Amber, too, but she just tells him to sit down with a smile that is all too innocent, walks to the other side of the table and busies herself with her boyfriend, leaving the only vacant seat between Yasmina...and Robbe.

“Look who showed up!” Amber exclaims, raising her glass at him and leaning against the curly-haired boy next to her. The table whoops, catching Sander so off-guard that he almost misses the way Robbe turns around and eyes him from head to toe. Sander hasn’t even had anything to drink but the pilot’s appreciative raise of an eyebrow is enough to unsteady him. 

He greets Yasmina with a fistbump as he sits down which she smiles at. 

A hand reaches over Robbe’s left side with a flourish and Sander starts, instinctively taking it and shaking it. Its owner flashes a bright smile at him. “I’m Milan, pilot of Echo Nova. Nice to meet you, Sander.”

Sander opens his mouth, not remembering ever telling him his name, but Milan just winks at him. Amber must have filled him in. 

He is introduced to the rest of the table as well; the doctor from med bay, Zoë, on Milan’s left with straight platinum hair similar to Sander’s, a cadet in the jaeger program, Jana, who Sander knows from Robbe’s lunch table, and sitting between Amber and Yasmina are another two cadets, Amber’s boyfriend Aaron, and Luca, a girl with wild curls who wiggles her eyebrows at him. 

“We’re missing a few people,” Amber announces. “Zoë’s boyfriend, Senne, and...Noor—where is Noor?” The question is aimed at everyone but the rest of the table all turn to Robbe, who answers, “She’s got early training in the morning. So she chose sleep over drinking.” 

“A valid choice,” Zoë says while Jana next to her twists her lips in disagreement.

“Moyo got called in,” Amber continues. “And we’re also missing—oh. Jens, of course.”

The whole table seems to turn to Robbe again, who slumps a little over his beer. There is something different about his eyes that Sander can’t pinpoint. In the muted Shatterdome lighting, they had always been dark, but in here, lit up by the fairy lights strung over the ceiling, they are a softer, lighter, and sweeter brown. 

“Aw, he’s missing his bestie.” Milan wraps an arm around him, jostling him slightly. Robbe mutters a “fuck off, Milan” while somehow managing to sound gentle, and even though he pushes at the other pilot’s arm, he still curls into it like he needs the comfort.

“He’ll be able to join us next time, Robbe, I’m sure of it,” Zoë says soothingly. 

From there, Luca decidedly takes over, cracking jokes to lighten the mood and after a few more rounds, it results in a pouting Aaron complaining loudly between her and Amber. 

“I do not talk too much!” he is whining. He swings a wavering finger in Sander’s direction. “Do you think I talk too much?” 

“I barely know you, dude,” Sander says while Robbe responds with a sluggish yes. 

If Amber was a lightweight, Robbe is worse. 

He had already been tipsy when Sander arrived, but he gets knocked out real quick, head dipping and eventually falling to rest on Milan’s shoulder. Sander thinks back to what Robbe said in the kitchen, how long this group has known each other, how some of them practically grew up together. Sander wishes he had that. He had left his friends in Tokyo so abruptly and with no explanation that even the thought of contacting them again instills some sort of fear and guilt in him. 

Someone nudges Sander’s shoulder. It is Yasmina; she pushes a jug of iced Coke at him, having noticed his lack of drink. 

It softens something inside him and he suddenly becomes aware of the energy surrounding him; warm, familial, comforting. It makes him wish he'd brought his camera with him so he can capture the moment. The way the fairy lights reflect in their drinks, Robbe passed out on his friend’s shoulder, the way Milan rubs a loving hand across Zoë’s arm for no other reason than just to be close, Jana’s gentle and fond gaze when she fixes a strand of Amber’s hair that has come loose from her bun, Zoë holding up a mirror to her face as she re-applies her lipstick, Aaron slumped against Amber’s shoulder and playing with her fingers, Yasmina producing a pen out of nowhere and drawing on the backs of Luca’s hands. 

Sander submerges so far into his thoughts, he jerks a little in surprise when Milan says his name. “I’m gonna go get another drink. Here, you take him.” It takes a second for Sander to realise he means Robbe and his breath stutters when Milan gently nudges Robbe over, whose head lulls and swings to rest on Sander’s shoulder instead. 

Milan drapes Robbe's jacket over him and pats it down around the boy's arms, sending a wink Sander’s way before he heads to the bar. Amazingly, Robbe doesn’t stir at all; he only shifts a little, cheek squished into Sander’s shoulder and hair brushing soft against his neck. 

Somehow, Robbe’s weight resting against him acts like a tether; it grounds him. Sander automatically untenses his shoulders, slows down his breathing, all to try and make Robbe more comfortable. As a result, he feels his own body relax.

And when Milan returns, drink in hand, he doesn’t try to shift Robbe back. 

Sander suddenly feels very thirsty, mouth gone dry. He raises his glass of Coke to his mouth, but pauses as Robbe groans, coming to. The boy rubs his forehead along the line between his neck and shoulder and Sander sets down his glass without drinking, doubting Robbe even knows whose arm he is currently resting against. 

“Hey, you feeling okay?” Sander murmurs to him. 

Robbe grumbles a “no”. 

Sander worries he might be sick so he gives him a light nudge. “Bathroom?” 

The other nods, eyelids half-closed, inhaling deeply before straightening up. Sander gets up out of his chair and supports Robbe when he does, too. Robbe balances himself by grabbing a handful of Sander’s leather jacket and seems confused at the different feel under his fingertips. His eyes lift to Sander’s face and his lips part a little when he sees who is holding him up. 

“Come on,” Sander says softly, jerking his head to the side and Robbe grumbles some more but obeys, jacket still draped over him. 

The whole table is occupied with either their own drunkenness or keeping the rest stable. Only Milan seems to notice their departure, sending Sander an amused smile when he swipes a random water glass off the table on his way. 

Robbe is stable on his feet as he walks but it goes slow and Sander resists putting a hand to his waist to steady him. Across the back of Robbe's brown pilots' jacket, the signet of Fox Enigma is displayed, the same signet that is scribed on the back of their drift helmets and on the chest piece of their suits. It's a simple design, an outline of a fox's back and its tail framed by sharp teeth. Sander would love to draw it. 

Stepping inside the bathroom, Sander is surprised to see the walls covered in stickers, old newspaper clippings, some political, some in Chinese, some with the PPDC logo on it. Drawings of kaiju and jaegers have been penciled in on the walls, along with sentimental messages and outlines of hands. All the different colours remind Sander of graffiti. 

Robbe sets his palms against the edge of the sink and waves a hand towards the door. “The lock on the door is broken, you gotta hold it shut.” 

Sander briefly wonders how many times the Shatterdome team has been here in order for him to be so casual about it, but he leans his back against the door nonetheless, keeping it closed. 

“Think you’re gonna be sick?” he asks, but Robbe shakes his head. 

“No, I’m not that drunk, just feel...out of it. And you don’t have to take care of me, you know, I’ll be fine on my own.” 

Sander ignores him and hands him the water. “Here, drink this.” He kicks the toilet lid shut with the front side of his boot and tells Robbe to sit down. “Put your head between your knees.” 

The pilot slumps down and Sander glances at their reflection in the mirror to the side, Robbe’s chestnut brown hair contrasting against Sander’s own stark white, the dark ginger of his jaeger jacket to the black leather of Sander’s. 

“Did you not drink?” Robbe’s voice comes muffled from his bent head and Sander leans his weight further into the door, hands in pockets. 

“No.” 

“May I ask why?” There is no judgement in his voice, only sluggish curiosity. Sander is lost for words. He's never met someone who is simultaneously rash and short-tempered and so maddeningly _polite_ before. 

“I-I don’t…” Sander struggles with how to answer because there are many answers to that question. The simple one is he can't drink and drive. The slightly more complicated one is that it messes with his medication. And another one, the one Sander hates to think about, is that it's part of the reason why he got kicked out.

The thing is...Sander feels like he could tell Robbe. Here, in the dingy bathroom of an even dingier bar, Sander could tell him anything. 

And fuck if that isn't terrifying. 

Sander supposes he has paused long enough because Robbe lifts his head.

“Long story?” The corner of his mouth dimples and all of a sudden there is a vacuum where Sander's heart is. The tone of Robbe’s voice throws him back to that night in the kitchen when Sander's exact same comment cut their conversation short, and it makes Sander realise that everything about them so far is surface-level. What does he really know about Robbe? Besides the fact that he clearly can’t handle his alcohol. 

Robbe shrugs and continues. “There may be some logic to that. Not drinking, I mean. It’s pretty shit, actually.” He fiddles with the now empty water glass, rubbing it over his palms before holding it pinched between his knees. And adds, quieter, “Makes _me_ feel like shit.” 

Jacket still draped over his shoulders, Robbe brings it up over his head like a hood and pinches it closed under his chin so only his face is visible and Sander’s heart might just explode. Especially when the boy pouts a little, lips slick from the water.

“Then why do you do it?” Sander finds himself asking. 

Robbe levels the water glass at him with his free hand. “That is a good question. One that I am definitely not sober enough for.” The water must have helped, however, because he sounds more awake and his speech is less slurred. 

Sander nudges the toe of Robbe's sneaker with his boot. “Feeling better?”

“Yeah, I’m just hungry now.” 

And right there, Sander senses an opportunity. Standing up straight, he makes a split-second decision. “Come on then. Let’s get out of here.” 

Robbe is visibly surprised, stuttering but no words come out. Sander grins at him salaciously. 

“What? Don’t trust me, Ranger?” 

“No. I don’t.” But there is something different in his gaze, sceptical, suspicious, _intrigued_. And when Sander holds out a hand to help him up, he takes it. 

In Sander's memory, the rest of the night passes in snapshots. 

It's the two of them sneaking out the backdoor, Robbe leading them down alleyways, telling him to zip up all his pockets and not trust anyone, taking Sander to the night market and claiming they have the best honey buns in all of Hong Kong. 

“They’re delicious. So chock-full of sugar, you’ll bleed syrup, but—” and taking a bite out of one, groaning—”so worth it.” 

It's the buzz of the fluorescents, people riding around on delivery mopeds, stall owners handing out orders in thin white plastic bags, the trees lining the streets blooming in unnatural colours of hot fuschia, electric blue and bright purple, sounds of honking cars, puffs of steam blowing out from under the stall tarps and trailing along the ground. 

Robbe must come here often because the aunties in the food stands all fawn over him, talking to him like he’s their own son while Sander watches in amusement as Robbe’s cheeks splash pink. He replies to them in soft accented Chinese, making them laugh and they push free samples on him that he insists on paying for. The neon lights reflect off his skin, catching on his cheekbones, painting his eyelashes and highlighting his hair. Sander wants to photograph him so bad.

It hits Sander just how sweet he is. When they order food and Sander grimaces at the side of wakame seaweed topped with sesame seeds, Robbe laughs at him warmly and holds out his own makeshift plate. “Just put it on mine.” It's such a simple gesture but it sets something off in Sander’s chest, something wholly new and kind of terrifying, like leaping out into the unknown and Sander doesn’t do great with the unknown. 

But he might just be okay with it for the way Robbe looks in the Hong Kong night. 

And especially for the way Robbe tells him that he’s ridiculous when Sander leads them to where his bike is parked. He stares in awe as Sander turns the camouflage off, and shakes his head with an open smile. 

“You’re such a cliché.” His eyes shine in amusement and Sander can’t stop looking at him where he is standing on the curb of the pavement, hood pulled over his head and a tuft of brown curls sticking out front.

Sander acts offended with a hand to his chest. “Me?” 

“The boots, the leather jacket, the gloves, now a motorcycle…” Sander wants to set his thumbs against the dimples created by Robbe’s smile and push a little until the skin gives. “You’re really pulling all the stops, aren’t you? 

Sander smirks, juggling the extra helmet between his hands. “So does that mean you don’t want a ride then?” 

“Are you kidding?” Robbe steps closer and steals the helmet from him, nudging an elbow to his ribs. “How fast can this thing go?” 

That night, Sander discovers Robbe is a bit of an adrenaline junkie. 

Sitting behind Sander, arms in the air, he whoops when they hit and surpass the speed limit. The streets of Hong Kong are near-empty at this time of night and Sander has never felt so fucking free.

If Sander could capture the night in pictures, it would be shots of the skyscrapers, bright city lights, the wide streets, tiny hole-in-the-wall restaurants, a convenience store on the corner with neon signs in the windows, and him and Robbe emerging from it, holding plastic white bags filled mostly with drinks and crisps. 

“Damn, that cashier looked miserable.” Sander swings a leg over his motorcycle, hanging a bag on the handle. 

“I’m pretty sure your singing pissed her off.” Robbe supplies, shoving the helmet over his head. 

“My singing is lovely.”

“Not at 1AM, it’s not.” 

“They played Under Pressure, do you know how rare that is? I couldn’t help it. It was fate.” 

Robbe snickers. “I don’t think the cashier felt that way.” 

“Okay, that’s enough out of you, mister.” Sander smacks the visor of Robbe’s helmet down over his grinning face before he gets a chance to. “Get on.” He shifts the bike between his legs, kicking it off its stand. 

“Where are we going?” The bag hanging off Robbe’s wrist bumps against Sander’s hip when the boy wraps his arms around his waist and Sander resists leaning back into him. 

“I want to see the water.”

Sander drives them to the Kowloon Waterfront. 

Biking down the promenade, the pathways are almost empty, only a few people sitting on the benches or standing by the balustrades and enjoying the view. 

He parks the bike nearby, not bothering to cloak it. He does it in a daze, distracted by the view across the water. All high-rise buildings, lit up in a spectrum of colours, night ferries passing by sluggishly as well as cargo ships going in and out of the harbour. 

Sander opens his mouth to speak, but turns to see that Robbe has already gone off, bypassing the perfectly suitable benches and collapsing down on the park grass instead. Scoffing, Sander plops down next to him and takes a can of Coke out, popping the lid. 

"Ugh, I can't believe I passed out on you." Robbe is saying, digging his palms into his eye sockets. 

A wind comes off the harbour, tangy with sea salt, and it stirs the hair escaping the hood at Robbe’s temples. 

Sander chuckles, a sip of Coke still in his mouth. “It’s okay, Robbe.” 

Robbe freezes and stares at Sander with parted lips. 

“What?” Sander asks hesitantly. 

“You...I think that’s the first time you’ve said my name.” 

Sander frowns and starts to shake his head. “That’s not...true,” he says but tapers off because he can’t remember one instance where he said his first name. He’s only ever called him Ranger or Ijzermans to his face. “Wow, we really got off on the wrong foot huh?” 

Robbe lowers his gaze to where he fiddles with the popped tab of his soda. “I'm still sorry about that. I was angry, worried and...scared. And I took it out on you. You didn’t deserve that.”

“I don’t blame you. I wasn’t exactly helping.” Sander winces when he recalls his failed attempt at a joke on the first day they met, calling him a child. 

“Oh yeah, no you were an ass. So maybe you deserved it a little bit.”

Sander laughs unexpectedly. “You know, I think I liked you better drunk.”

“Fuck off.” Robbe grins and tosses an empty candy wrapper at him. Sander doesn’t think he’s ever seen him this _giddy_. It’s like the tension that had sat heavy on his shoulders has lifted and it’s obvious how much Robbe needed a night of pure freedom, away from the Shatterdome. 

“For the record, I don’t think you’re a child. You’re tiny for sure, but a child? No.” 

Robbe scoffs. “Wish I could say you’re not a criminal, but…” 

Sander goes quiet. 

“Sorry.” 

Sander shakes his head. “How did you know about that?” 

“Besides seeing you in handcuffs?” Robbe asks jokingly, but after a few seconds, reaches into his jacket pocket and brings out his portscreen. A quick couple of flicks of his thumb and then he’s showing Sander a screenshot of some old local news feed.

A wanted poster. With his face all over it. 

“You looked me up.” It’s more of a statement than a question but Robbe’s expression goes sheepish nonetheless. 

“Was a little bit difficult without a last name, but Yasmina’s stalker skills are scarily efficient.” 

Sander hands him back the phone. “My last name won’t make you any happier, trust me.” 

“I saw the bulletholes in your bike, Sander.” Robbe waits for a response but when he doesn’t get one, he keeps going. “Look, you’ve obviously been through some shit and I’m not going to ask you to tell me. You’re just...a difficult person to figure out.” 

_I am?_

And as if Robbe heard the question, he answers, “when you want to be.” 

“And if I don’t want to be?” 

Robbe pops open another can of soda and hands it over. “Then we’ve got all night.” 

\---

“Fuck, I needed this.” Robbe throws himself onto his back next to Sander, arms spread, staring up at the sky that has begun to lighten. “It’s nice here. Nice to be reminded of what it is we’re actually protecting.” 

Another hour or so has passed and Robbe hadn’t pushed him further on his “long story”. Instead, they had listened to the music playing from Sander's phone, made a game of tossing Maltesers into each other's mouths, flopped onto their backs and hunted for a glimpse of stars in the sky.

Maybe it’s tiredness starting to kick in or it’s the way their legs are pressing together but Sander inhales a shaky breath. 

“I wanted to be a pilot more than anything.” 

A soft noise comes from Robbe’s throat, quiet and encouraging, followed by a shuffle of clothing against wood as he turns his head to face Sander, who continues slowly, “Remember I told you that I had been here before? In Hong Kong. Well, I—uh—I used to be a cadet in the jaeger program, but I only made it through the first stages before I was kicked out. They transferred me to Tokyo instead to study as a technician. And I would’ve graduated at the top of my class with full honours if I hadn’t dropped out two fucking months before graduation." He forces a chuckle. "I ran away. Became a Scavenger instead. Then the PPDC caught me and now I’m paying off my sentence by working here."

Somehow, Sander expects Robbe's burning question to be why he got kicked out or why he ran away or even what scavenging was like but...

"Do you regret it? Running away?"

Fuck.

No one has ever asked Sander that. Tokyo Shatterdome officials had responded to his escape by sending out his picture like some mugshot, and his mother had shown disappointment like nothing Sander had ever seen. No one had ever stopped to consider why he had done what he did. 

It takes a moment for him to respond and although he is surprised by it, he finds that his answer holds no doubt or uncertainty. "No, I don't. I mean, I'm pretty bummed out I didn't get my degree but—I needed to leave that place. It was so... _suffocating_." 

"Then you did what you had to do." 

Sander turns to face him. Robbe is lying on his side now, has his palms pressed together underneath his head, gaze steady on Sander's. Robbe's eyes are deep and dark and they spark with emotion which makes Sander think maybe he has run from something, too. A part in Sander itches like an urge, a persistent urge to reach out and touch, reach out and hold. 

"Besides," Robbe inhales deeply, "piloting isn't all it's cracked up to be." 

“What?" The question escapes Sander, with a surprised guffaw. "What about drift compatibility and all that? I heard it’s like finding your soulmate.” 

“Trust me, it’s not the fairytale they make it out to be. Jens and I had some real issues before we could drift.”

“But I thought…”

Robbe shrugs it off. “He and I basically grew up together. Most of our memories were already shared which is why we’re so compatible. But before we could drift...there were things I needed to tell him and I wasn’t sure how he’d take it. So I refused to sim with him, ran with Yaz instead. It wasn’t until I came clean that we…” 

Robbe has turned pensive now, even a little bit guilty, so Sander poses a different question. 

“What’s that like? Drifting with someone, having someone in your head like that? Isn’t it weird?” Sander always saw it as an invasion of sorts. And if he could barely stand being inside his own head, how could he subject someone else to it? 

Robbe hums. “I don’t see it that way. Not anymore, anyways. It’s more of a connection. I mean, yeah, you’re exposed in every possible way and you can’t really hide anything from them. Jens sees everything. Even the stuff I don’t want him to see.” His expression goes a bit dark and an idea pops into Sander’s head but it goes right out of his mouth before he can process it. 

“Were you in love with him or something?” He says it half-jokingly but there is a long pause on Robbe's end, and Sander could just jump right into the freezing water. “Oh shit, you were? Are?” 

Robbe levels him with a look and Sander pretends to zip his lips shut. “None of my business, sorry.” 

But Robbe starts speaking. “I was. Not anymore.” A smile ghosts his lips. “Drifting with him kind of threw me off. As it turns out, being inside his head is pretty disgusting, actually.” 

“Oh, and it’s all blue skies and sunshine in your head then?” 

Robbe grins, the light from the sunrise reflecting pink off his skin. “Oh yeah. Drifting with me is like a dream.” 

Sander bets it is.

///

“Food delivery!” 

Amber comes bustling into Fox Enigma’s conn-pod carrying brown paper bags.

None of the technicians had been particularly keen on going all the way to the cafeteria for their lunch break so after a quick coin toss—which Amber consequently lost—she had gone to pick up food for them. 

Now, she dumps the bags on the provisional table set-up next to the pilots' motion rigs. “Bon appétit, assholes.” 

Sander drags his work gloves off while stretching a leg to kick at Moyo’s shoes where they are exposed underneath a large propped-up wall panel. 

“Yeah, yeah I’m coming,” Moyo says, strained as he pushes himself out from the small space, sliding out on a creeper board. He takes Sander's offered hand and uses it to hoist himself up. “You are a saint,” he tells Amber as they approach the table. 

Sander is about to tell her the same until he opens up his brown bag and sees what’s inside. He picks up a sandwich wrapped in cling film. “Please don’t tell me this is what I think it is.” 

Amber gives him an annoyed once-over. “It is tuna. You need to boost your nutrition. I got you both salads, too.” 

“It is an abomination,” Sander mutters, but takes a bite anyway to get Amber to stop glaring at him like she’s his mother. 

“Alright,” Moyo says decidedly. “From now on, no more food runs for you.” 

“Agreed.” 

Amber makes faces at the both of them. 

Sander busies himself poking at his salad that is mostly just lettuce and zero dressing when Moyo makes a noise, tapping the back of his hand to Sander's arm. "Your dog is beeping." 

Sander looks down to find Ziggy trying to nestle her way between their legs, the alarm attached to her collar dinging softly, the small light on it blinking red. He bends down to kiss her forehead as he turns it off and when he straightens up, Moyo is already there, knowingly dumping Sander's bag onto the table in front of him. Sander doesn't have to say thank you, they've done this enough at this point that it is an unspoken thing between them. Moyo knows what the alarm means: med break. 

Sander had tried to hide it from them at first, not wanting any questions during his first weeks. But even when Moyo caught him digging his tin of pills out of the side-pocket of his bag, he never said anything, never questioned it. So Sander stopped hiding it. He suspects Amber doesn't quite know what the pills are for, but despite all her bluntness, she's never asked.

After taking his meds, Sander swooshes the insides of his mouth with water and rolls his head around his shoulders with a slight groan. Moyo points his fork at the control system, catching Sander's attention. 

“Who is this by the way? It’s the same dude you always listen to,” he says, referring to the music playing on the speakers, the familiar lines of Starman. 

Sander scoffs. “This _dude_ is David Bowie. You don’t know him?” This reminds Sander of a similar conversation he had a few nights ago, pushing a trolley at a convenience store at 1 AM, belting out lyrics while more than one person rolled their eyes at him. Sander has to chew on the inside of his cheek to stop from smiling. 

“No, I don’t know him," Moyo is saying. "You’ve got weird taste, man.” 

"Just taste, actually." Sander pushes at him, laughing. 

"So," a voice suddenly comes from the doorway. "when's my baby up and running?" 

Sander doesn't recognise the guy that steps into the conn-pod; tall, lanky, messy dark hair and dressed in a maroon hoodie. But when Robbe follows behind him, saying "that's _our_ baby, thank you very much" Sander knows this must be Jens. He has to admit, he is a bit surprised. Co-pilots usually have some sort of similarities between them; weight, height, stature, all in order to match physically in combat. Sander can't spot a single likeness, except for the way they seem to gravitate towards one another.

Moyo jogs up to them to clasp Jens' hand and pull him in for a slap on the back. Ziggy is on his heels, curious about the new arrival. "You look good, man!" 

"How you holding up?" Amber asks softly. 

"Pretty good, actually. We had our first drift session today." Jens nudges Robbe with an elbow and a meaningful look. Robbe rolls his eyes. "Turns out I've missed a lot." He then nods in Sander's direction, smile smug. "You must be Sander. Heard lots about you." 

"All bad things probably." Sander clears his throat and can't help but feel slightly intimidated by the guy who knows Robbe like the back of his own hand.

Jens finds his gaze and holds it, eyes containing something like mischief. "Oh, not at all."

Robbe coughs suddenly, and the sides of Jens' mouth twitch. 

“Anyway, fill me in. How long until she’s ready?” 

Amber responds first, brushing crumbs off her hands. "All her repairs are finished, the arm structure fully reattached. She was cleared a couple of days ago, so we've started installing the new panels. The three of us are working on her interface right now." A bark comes from below the table and Amber bends down to scratch Ziggy behind her ears. "Sorry, missy. The four of us." 

Sander chimes in, "we were also thinking of adding one more thing." As Robbe's face predictably goes a bit wary, Sander raises a reassuring hand. "It's already been cleared by Mission Control but we wanted to run it by you first. I went through your footage and you've got a mean swing kick, so I've got some designs for blades in her feet. They won't weigh much more and are relatively easy to install; they'll be thin but sharp as razors." 

Jens, who had crossed his arms, gives an impressed nod. "I'm all for it." There seems to be some sort of silent communication between him and Robbe, who gives a small nod of his own. 

"Go for it," he finally says, and Sander smirks. 

“Then she should be ready for testing in a week or so.” 

Jens throws a thumbs-up. “Long enough for me to catch up. Training starts tomorrow.” 

The rest of the group bristles, all except for Robbe, whose sigh is one of defeat. 

Amber makes a noise of protest. “Already? You just woke up.” 

“It was nothing, I’ll be back to usual in no time.” Jens shrugs it off, but Sander notices that while he has no sling on, he has barely used his right arm at all. He's kept it tucked firmly into his hoodie pocket this whole time. Sander has heard of that: phantom pains. When jaegers take critical hits during combat and the pilots are still connected, it can cause them trauma beyond physical injuries. Sander suspects Jens still feels the arm ripping from its socket.

“You were in a coma for a week, Jens. That is not _nothing_.” Robbe says firmly, and Jens, clearly sensing a shift in his partner, lifts his left arm to rub at Robbe's shoulder. He does it almost unthinkingly, like it's instinct. 

"I heal fast," he addresses the others, as a way to comfort them, too. 

"Come on, Stoffels," Moyo says, sounding eager to lighten up the tension. "We'll show you the designs." 

Amber heads towards the corner to find her tablet containing all their blueprints and scans. 

No longer receiving attention, Ziggy trots around the table to plant herself at Sander's ratty converse instead, eyes mooning up at him. He shakes his head at her, but tugs her closer so she can rest her brow to his thigh, and pets her neck. She sniffs at him, obviously knowing that they have food on the table. "Trust me, you don't want any of this." He sneaks a peek at Moyo's salad and finds a clean slice of raw cucumber near the bottom. He picks it up and drops it right into Ziggy's maw. Still at 6 months old, she'll eat pretty much anything, but she looks slightly disgruntled. 

"Hey."

Sander is unprepared, thinking that everyone followed Amber to the corner of the conn-pod, but he looks up and finds Robbe approaching the table, visibly fiddling with the strap of his wristwatch. 

"Hi." Sander hasn't really seen Robbe since the bar night, since they had arrived back at the Shatterdome, past six in the morning, sugar rush worn off, Robbe slumped against his back.

That night, it felt like something had shifted between them by Robbe's easy smile, his loosened body, the way he'd rested a tired head on Sander's shoulder while he drove them back to the Dome. Sander had piggy-backed him into the compound and dropped him off at his door, the pilot giggling into his neck as he'd struggled to hold him up and punch in his entrance code simultaneously. 

Closer up, Robbe's messy hair looks damp around the edges and a scent comes off him, woody and fresh like pine and citrus, as if he's just come from a shower. He gives a nod to Sander's sandwich, and while holding back a smile, he says, "Let me guess. Amber?" 

"She says we need nutrition." Sander grimaces and waves his sandwich between them. The bread flops a little as if it's made of rubber. "Gotta say, I'm the tiniest bit concerned about what her idea of 'nutrition' is."

Robbe starts patting his pockets. "I think I've got a protein bar somewhere." 

Sander inhales, incredibly tempted, before slumping. “I’d love to but—” he jerks his chin in Amber’s direction, where she stands beside Jens and aggressively mouths ‘eat’ at him—”I’m under strict observation.” Sander stabs a piece of tomato on his fork and makes an annoyed show of chewing it down. She grins in satisfaction. 

A soft noise of amusement comes from Robbe. He looks more relaxed now, having stopped tugging at his watch. One of his hands has drifted down to play with Ziggy's ears and she preens at him, nosing at his wrist.

Sander is too focused on them and the way Ziggy has gone to lean her full weight against Robbe instead—the little traitor—that he doesn't even notice the music playing over the speakers change until Robbe clears his throat.

"Hmm, Under Pressure." He is nodding his head along to the beat, smile knowing, eyes glinting as he looks at Sander. "Good song." 

Perfect. He's fucking perfect. "You learn fast." 

Robbe lifts one shoulder. "I've got a good teacher." 

They share a private look and Sander swallows hard, willing his pulse to remain level. He doesn't really succeed, but Jens ends up saving him by clapping a hand down on Robbe's shoulder and jostling him a bit.

"Back to work, bro."

Then, he addresses Sander and holds his fist out for him to bump. "The new stuff looks amazing, can't wait to try it out later." 

Robbe's hands linger a bit on the table, hidden by Sander's bag, when Jens moves to tug him away. On the way out the door, Jens shouts, "you're all geniuses. Just take care of my baby!" followed by the sound of a sharp smack. "Ow, okay, sorry, _our_ baby."

"To think that they're our nation's sole defense." Moyo jokes, returning to their makeshift lunch table. 

Amber shakes her head. "Amazing."

Moyo deadpans, "more like terrifying." 

Sander rolls his eyes at them and moves his bag off the table for more space. Before he dumps it on the floor, he spots one of the open pockets. And stowed away inside it, a protein bar that definitely wasn't there before. _Robbe, you fucking angel._ He quickly zips it and sets the satchel down, turning his attention back to the table. 

Searching and coming up blank, he asks Amber. "No coffee?" 

“Nope.” Looking all too pleased with herself, she digs into one of the brown bags, slams down a pair of see-through cups filled with green liquid. “Juice.” 

Sander slumps against the table, defeated.

**Author's Note:**

> tumblr: sbedem


End file.
